Chaos is inherent. Life wheels and shakes in an impossible phantasmagoria of memory, chance, and luck. The more I stay alive, the more I strive to accept a thwarted presence, the more I can say with stuttering certainty that love is the only respite from a universe which very nearly demands insanity.
Love, too, is chaos. And yet amidst the tidal waves of all things perceived and invisible to the naked eye, the sheerness of you, now, here, and me, now, here, is enough to defend courage. Something must make sense if two people agree on the strength of a gaze." @6 months ago with 12 notes
@6 months ago with 243 notes
In his youth, he worked in a factory, though everyone said he looked more like a professor of classical languages than a factory worker. He walked to work as if moving under water.
He was a beautiful man with a slender body which moved in a mixture of grace and sharp geometrical precision. His face had an imprint of laugher on it, as if no other emotion ever touched his skin. Even in his fifties, the nineteen-year-old girls winked at him in trains or trolley-busses, asking for his phone number.
Seven years after his death, I saw Celan in his house slippers dancing alone in his bedroom, humming step over step. He did not mind being a character in my stories in a language he never learned. That night, I saw him sitting on a rooftop, searching for Venus, reciting Brodsky to himself. He asked if his past existed at all.
— Ilya Kaminsky, “Traveling Musicians”