Man shouldn’t be able to see his own face – there’s nothing more sinister. Nature gave him the gift of not being able to see it, and of not being able to stare into his own eyes.
Only in the water of rivers and ponds could he look at his face. And the very posture he had to assume was symbolic. He had to bend over, stoop down, to commit the ignominy of beholding himself.
The inventor of the mirror poisoned the human heart.
Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet (via das-grablied)
Every gesture, however simple, violates an inner secret. Every gesture is a revolutionary act; an exile, perhaps, from the true ☐ of our intentions.
Action is a disease of thought, a cancer of the imagination. Action is self-exile. Every action is incomplete and flawed. The poem I dream has no flaws until I try to realize it. We find this recorded in the myth of Jesus. God, becoming man, cannot help but end in martyrdom. The supreme dreamer has the supreme martyr for a son.
Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, 322
Viktor’s opening soliloquy from Ingmar Bergman’s Autumn Sonata (1978)
Autumn Sonata // Höstsonaten (Ingmar Bergman - 1978)
Are the daughter’s miseries the mother’s triumphs?
Nick Drake - At The Chime of a City Clock.
Who knows what a face is for?
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