Ciclo L

The light on the water this evening — *la luce sull’acqua — it does not behave as it did in my youth. Then I chased it, measured it, broke it into laws. Now it simply arrives, and I receive it, and that is enough. The Maker does not explain Himself to the old man; He shows, and the old man sees, and the seeing is the whole of the argument. I think of the canal at dusk, the way the reds dim into something neither red nor not-red, and I understand at last that I was never painting the light. The light was painting me.