Saturday, November 28, 2009


Sunday, November 8, 2009

Found on far-off pathways:
Sprigs of roses. With stems in hand,
Unsure of how to hold them,
I want to meet you.

As with pale orphaned
children I look for you,--
And to my poor roses
You would be a mother.

[Rainer Maria Rilke]

Thursday, November 5, 2009

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

Grief surges over me. His face not two feet from mine, my son Theophile sits patiently waiting—and I, his father, have lost the simple right to ruffle his bristly hair, clasp his downy neck, hug his small, lithe, warm body tight against me. There are no words to describe it. My condition is monstrous, iniquitous, revolting, horrible. Suddenly I can take no more. Tears well and my throat emits a hoarse rattle that startles Theophile. Don’t be scared, little man. I love you.

[Jean-Dominique Bauby]