Only the impossible lasts forever. |
Djuna Barnes (June 12, 1892 – June 18, 1982)
Without patience and the skill of a craftsman, even the greatest talent is wasted. |
Herewith it is anounced that I have not moved to my probably last dwelling six feet under, yet.
I felt but the wish to prove myself I could do without internet for at least four weeks, and still happily survive.
"Surprise": It's possible.
Good to know.
Tomorrow, or one of the following days, I shall answer the comments I received since end of April.
And I am looking forward to "visit my friends".
The peace of the night.
Martha Argerich *5 June 1941
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (27 January 1756 – 5 December 1791)
The day we stop resisting our instincts, we'll have learned how to live. |
... |
Philippe Dijan * 3 June 1949
Death of the Little Match Girl |
Zoran Ferić * 2 June 1961
Time changes everything except something within us which is always surprised by change. |
Thomas Hardy (2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928)
Joachim Raff (27 May 1822 – 24 or 25 June 1882)
Daniel Müller-Schott * 2 November 1976
At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
To the lone valley we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;
And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there
And tell me our love is remember'd even in the sky!
Then I sing the wild song it was once rapture to hear
When our voices, commingly, breathed like one on the ear;
And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, I think,
O my Love! 'tis thy voice, from the Kingdom of Souls
Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
Thomas Moore (28 May 1779 – 25 February 1852)
At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
To the lone valley we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;
And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there
And tell me our love is remember'd even in the sky!
Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such pleasure to hear
When our voices, commingly, breathed like one on the ear;
And as Echo far off through the vale my said orison rolls,
I think, O my Love! 'tis thy voice, from the Kingdom of Souls
Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
Thomas Moore (28 May 1779 – 25 February 1852)
Journey to the End of the Night * "The poetry of heroism appeals irresistibly to those who don't go to a war, and even more to those whom the war is making enormously wealthy. It's always so." |
Louis Ferdinand Céline (27 May 1894 – 1 July 1961)