We have within us on our temperate slope a series of songs which accompany us, wings connecting our relaxed breathing to our highest fevers. Pieces almost banal, mild in their coloring, recessed in their contour, whose fabric bears nevertheless a tiny wound. Anyone may set an origin and an end to this questionable redness.
In a time when death, docile to fake sorcerers, sullies the noblest possibilities, we do not hesitate to set free every instant at our disposal. Or better, let us turn to the ipomea, this bindweed which the ultimate night hour refines and half opens, but which noontime condems to closure. It would be unthinkable that the quietude, on whose reverse side it welcomes us precariously, should not be that which we had desired, for our noonday repose.
-- René Char
In a time when death, docile to fake sorcerers, sullies the noblest possibilities, we do not hesitate to set free every instant at our disposal. Or better, let us turn to the ipomea, this bindweed which the ultimate night hour refines and half opens, but which noontime condems to closure. It would be unthinkable that the quietude, on whose reverse side it welcomes us precariously, should not be that which we had desired, for our noonday repose.
-- René Char
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