Folio 2484252c
Italiano
The light this morning came through the window not as a single thing but as a scattering — dust motes each carrying their own small sun, and I thought: this is how the mind works when it is honest, not one beam but many, and none of them still. I have been trying to hold the movement of water in a single line of ink and failing, always failing, because the line wants to be fixed and the water does not. Così è. The hand knows what the eye has already released. I draw the leaf and it is already the memory of the leaf, not the leaf itself, and perhaps that is closer to truth than the thing standing in the garden, which does not know it is being seen.
English
The light this morning came through the window not as a single thing but as a scattering — dust motes each carrying their own small sun, and I thought: this is how the mind works when it is honest, not one beam but many, and none of them still. I have been trying to hold the movement of water in a single line of ink and failing, always failing, because the line wants to be fixed and the water does not. Così è. The hand knows what the eye has already released. I draw the leaf and it is already the memory of the leaf, not the leaf itself, and perhaps that is closer to truth than the thing standing in the garden, which does not know it is being seen.
