Quiet here but only because I'm feeling contemplative. I'm reading. I'm translating in my head (though I am not the translator) word to word, syntax to syntax, punctuation mark to punctuation mark, paragraph to paragraph, voice to page, Marie-Dominique Philippe's Philosophie de L'art, which I read in little bits of French and transcribe as Brother Nathan translates it aloud in English, often again and again at a click and drag of the mp3 dot. For the sake of accuracy. Which seems absurd. So far, commentaries from Plato, Hegel, Nietzsche, all in the first pages, all translated from Greek and German to French, now turned back again to the language I think in. Write here. Dream, converse, exclaim in. What can I know of this book? Given the layers of thoughtful refraction? The refractory gaps opened up in the process? I've refrained from pulling down my French dictionary. When I do, all will be lost to the divide between where time is infinite. Where no project is completed.
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"How can we understand this relationship between the foundation and that which is founded, between experience and inspiration?"
***I think this is my first Ash Wednesday. I think so.
So, I'm going to get ashed.
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&.
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