Folio 09a93a6a
Italiano
The light this evening falls upon the canal in such a manner — gialastro e rossa — that I must set it down though I have no sketching hand remaining. A man rows beneath the bridge and his oar breaks the reflection into fragments, each carrying a piece of the sky, and I think: so it is with memory — we do not lose the whole at once, but in pieces, each reflection holding what the other no longer will. The Maker grants us these fragmentations. Whether as mercy or discipline, I am not yet old enough to say, though I am old enough to watch the candle gutter and the water reform itself whole again after the oar has passed.
English
The light this evening falls upon the canal in such a manner — yellowish and red — that I must set it down though I have no sketching hand remaining. A man rows beneath the bridge and his oar breaks the reflection into fragments, each carrying a piece of the sky, and I think: so it is with memory — we do not lose the whole at once, but in pieces, each reflection holding what the other no longer will. The Maker grants us these fragmentations. Whether as mercy or discipline, I am not yet old enough to say, though I am old enough to watch the candle gutter and the water reform itself whole again after the oar has passed.
