the eyes of the dragonfly

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dragonfly summer

I remember a summer day before the war, when I met, rare in any land, who completely deserve the name, so disparaged these days, of a “person of note.” I had caught a large dragonfly, malachite, turquoise, gauze and mother of pearl, and I showed it to him. This eminent man gave it a look, and predictable comment: “very pretty.”

Then he started to pay attention, pointed to part of the creature: the eyes, the enormous eyes, those two iridescent globes, unfathomable, those jewels where reflections played, reflections of water and azure, all the colors of the universe.

“What is that?”
“That? Those are just its eyes…”
He leaned over, gazed passionately: “its eyes? Are you sure? Do you mean that all dragonflies have eyes like that? It seems to me I would have seen them before, wouldn’t I? Its eyes?”

He took the creature, touched it lightly with his hand, and when he gave it back to me, murmured to himself: “Look at that. Things like that exist, and we don’t even know. We have to tell people about it, we have to let people know about these eyes…”

The fervor, the wonder of the discovery appeared on his face, so new and so gentle, and communicative, that I truly had the impression that he was the one who had just invented, to bequeath them to the world, the eyes of the dragonfly.

~Collette

(recently came across this in Orion Magazine, an excerpt adapted from Shipwrecked on a Traffic Island and Other Previously Untranslated Gems, available in November 2014)

cracks in the wall

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The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.

~ Ernest Hemingway

sea and solitude

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“so that the monotonous fall of the waves on the beach, which for the most part beat a measured and soothing tattoo to her thoughts seemed consolingly to repeat over and over again…”

~ Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

Cape Cod, Massachusetts

colors of a day

tulips, fences and bokeh

“People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and its ends, but to me it’s quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations, with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spat blues. Murky darknesses. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them. ”

~ Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

~ wishing you all a colorful weekend ~

after the dance

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“The Mozart sonata Dad picked out begins to play. When we hear the first note, we open the sacks and the ladybugs escape through the opening, taking flight. It’s as if someone has dumped rubies from heaven. Soon they will land on the plants in search of bollworm eggs. But right now they are magic-red ribbons flying over our heads, weaving against the pink sky, dancing up there with Mozart.”
~ Kimberly Willis Holt