Folio 4eff5fc3
Italiano
The light this morning came through the window at such an angle that the dust in the air became visible — each particle turning, suspended, neither rising nor falling, as though the air itself had forgotten which way is down. I watched for a long time. Polvere della luce, I called it in my mind, though the phrase is mine and not proper to any tongue. It made me think of the soul — how it too hangs in a medium we cannot name, moved by forces it does not choose, visible only when the light strikes it from the right direction. Most of the time we are invisible to ourselves. Then a certain hour comes, a certain slant, and we see that we have been turning all along. The hand is steadier today. Or perhaps only more willing to be unsteady. I do not know which is the greater grace.
English
This morning, the light came through the window at such an angle that the dust in the air became visible—each particle turning, suspended, neither rising nor falling, as though the air itself had forgotten which way is down. I watched for a long time. I called it polvere della luce in my mind, though the phrase is mine and not proper to any tongue. It made me think of the soul—how it too hangs in a medium we cannot name, moved by forces it does not choose, visible only when the light strikes it from the right direction. Most of the time we are invisible to ourselves. Then a certain hour comes, a certain slant, and we see that we have been turning all along. The hand is steadier today. Or perhaps only more willing to be unsteady. I do not know which is the greater grace.
