A Sketch

(Julie Verhoeven)

Leopardi-- simplicity and wit, fluidity of ideas. Nostalgia of poems, my parallel reaction: the hillside behind my home, the knowledge of forest and rock and water. Stars at night and crisp edge of moon.

Why does the onset of autumn make the lines crisper? Things seem more solid, more defined, but more distant. I look up at the buildings as I walk by and I can take them in with my mind, see them more vividly, roll them around like the pit of an olive in my mouth.

His thoughts/words on translation, the ineffable loss. The essential loss.

Amour-propre (Rousseau v. Leopardi) is it the only real component of man (the primary component?) Should it be then flushed out of artifice, made noble and shining (R.) Or eschewed for what it is--keystone of unhappiness, false deluder and seductress (L.)

"A thinker" Who are the thinkers now? Which minds beat in time with the infinite and the now? Which minds exert more force? Can we even ask this question anymore? (Is mind-energy, whatever that may be, diffused over too wide a range, valued too little, too illusory in appearance?)

Where are movements, ideas, meaning? These things exist because we can still recognize them, so why have we become complacent/trivial? Is there a remedy? Can one even expect it?

I miss dialogue. Heartily.