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Es werden Posts vom September 12, 2010 angezeigt.

herz sei kein frosch


A Morning Like Any Other

This morning, at breakfast in the conservatory, eating my bowl of muesli and drinking my cup of fennel tea, sunshine falling on the table,  the clouds above, visible through the glass roof, pursuing their indifferent path, some higher up almost stationary, while those lower down in the atmosphere hurried along busily, imperturbably, gently ruffling the leaves at the top of the tall beech tree; the dahlias showing me their deep red faces, swaying in harmony with barely perceptible currents of air; late martins swooping and dipping and circling above, harvesting their last meal before setting off for the South, a flock of rooks cawing noisily, raucously, before taking off in formation across the blue of the sky, only to land again in the old horse chestnut tree across the field; the weather vane on the church tower glinting in the sunshine and the ducks on the river by the bridge complaining loudly at something only they knew  -  it all was exactly like any other morning i…

David Foster Wallace

A narrow fellow in the grass
Occasionally rides, You may have met him, - did you not? His notice sudden is.
The grass divides as with a comb, A spotted shaft is seen; And then it closes at your feet And opens further on.
He likes a boggy acre, A floor too cool for corn. Yet when a child, and barefoot, I more than once, at morn,
Have passed, I thought, a whip-lash Unbraiding in the sun, - When, stopping to secure it, It wrinkled, and was gone.
Several of nature's people I know, and they know me; I feel for them a transport Of cordiality;
But never met this fellow, Attended or alone, Without a tighter breathing, And zero at the bone.

Emily Dickinson

für David Foster Wallace 21.02.1962 12.09.2008