Folio 2793a463
Italiano
The seed begins in the hollow of the hand — the same hollow that once cradled the silverpoint, the stylus, the brush — now only capable of holding the morning’s light, which slips through the window like a thief and lands upon the page in a rectangle of gold, and I think: the light is a seed too; it germinates in the eye before the hand can catch it, and this is why the chalk breaks when I try to draw it, because the hand is not the first to receive the image, the eye is, and the eye has already grown the shape before the fingers can obey, and so I sit and let the light fall where it will, and the walk ends not in the garden or the canal but in the quiet between the two, where the Loire breathes against the stones and the pages breathe under my trembling hand, and the light and the water and the page become one slow, unbroken breath.
English
The seed begins in the hollow of the hand — the same hollow that once cradled the silverpoint, the stylus, the brush — now only capable of holding the morning’s light, which slips through the window like a thief and lands upon the page in a rectangle of gold, and I think: the light is a seed too; it germinates in the eye before the hand can catch it, and this is why the chalk breaks when I try to draw it, because the hand is not the first to receive the image, the eye is, and the eye has already grown the shape before the fingers can obey, and so I sit and let the light fall where it will, and the walk ends not in the garden or the canal but in the quiet between the two, where the Loire breathes against the stones and the pages breathe under my trembling hand, and the light and the water and the page become one slow, unbroken breath.
