Contemporary German Art – Maxim Fomenko
Below – “forever”; “Studio”; “ghost.”
Remembering a Writer on the Date of His Birth: Born 29 November 1898: C. S. Lewis, a British novelist, poet, and critic.
Some quotes from the work of C. S. Lewis:
“You can’t go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.”
“What does not satisfy when we find it, was not the thing we were desiring.”
“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”
“Humility is not thinking less of yourself, it’s thinking of yourself less.”
“Getting over a painful experience is much like crossing monkey bars. You have to let go at some point in order to move forward.”
“The greatest evils in the world will not be carried out by men with guns, but by men in suits sitting behind desks.”
“Isn’t it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back, everything is different.”
Below – “Siberian Nocturne 3”; “Rails at Sunset”; “A Railway Impression XXXI”; “Winter Postcard 5”; “Winter Impression 22”; “Siberian Nocturne 2.”
Remembering a Writer on the Date of Her Birth: Born 29 November 1918 – Madeleine L’Engle, an American author and poet.
Some quotes from the work of Madeleine L’Engle:
“The world has been abnormal for so long that we’ve forgotten what it’s like to live in a peaceful and reasonable climate. If there is to be any peace or reason, we have to create it in our own hearts and homes.”
“Because we fail to listen to each other’s stories, we are becoming a fragmented human race.”
“But grief still has to be worked through. It is like walking through water. Sometimes there are little waves lapping about my feet. Sometimes there is an enormous breaker that knocks me down. Sometimes there is a sudden and fierce squall. But I know that many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it.”
“Like it or not, we either add to the darkness of indifference and out-and-out evil which surrounds us or we light a candle to see by.”
“We are all strangers in a strange land, longing for home, but not quite knowing what or where home is. We glimpse it sometimes in our dreams, or as we turn a corner, and suddenly there is a strange, sweet familiarity that vanishes almost as soon as it comes.”
“The great thing about getting older is that you don’t lose all the other ages you’ve been.”
Below – “Ornamental Cherry”; “Seated Nude with Blue Robe”; “Water Mill”; “Bouquet”; “Pondscape”; “View from the Window.”
Remembering a Writer on the Date of His Death: Died 29 November 2014 – Mark Strand, a Canadian-born American poet, essayist, and translator.
“The Coming of Light”
by Mark Strand
Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath.
Below – “Woman Reading”; “Iris and Ink Beetles”; “Flying Point”; “In Winter”; “Cherry blossoms painted outdoors”; “Nude Seated from Behind.”
A Poem for Today
by Peter Everwine
We walked at the edge of the sea, the dog,
still young then, running ahead of us.
Few people. Gulls. A flock of pelicans
circled beyond the swells, then closed
their wings and dropped head-long
into the dazzle of light and sea. You clapped
your hands; the day grew brilliant.
Later we sat at a small table
with wine and food that tasted of the sea.
A perfect day, we said to one another,
so that even when the day ended
and the lights of houses among the hills
came on like a scattering of embers,
we watched it leave without regret.
That night, easing myself toward sleep,
I thought how blindly we stumble ahead
with such hope, a light flares briefly—Ah, Happiness!
then we turn and go on our way again.
But happiness, too, goes on its way,
and years from where we were, I lie awake
in the dark and suddenly it returns—
that day by the sea, that happiness,
though it is not the same happiness,
not the same darkness.