Folio 681e21f7
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 some time. It reminded me of the way a thought behaves when it is not yet fully born: it hangs, it turns, it catches the light of attention, and then — poi — it either settles into the body of a drawing or it vanishes, and one cannot say which is the greater loss. The hand is steadier today. Or perhaps only more willing to accept its own trembling.
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 some time. It reminded me of the way a thought behaves when it is not yet fully born: it hangs, it turns, it catches the light of attention, and then — poi — it either settles into the body of a drawing or it vanishes, and one cannot say which is the greater loss. The hand is steadier today. Or perhaps only more willing to accept its own trembling.
