Beauty is mystical in the strict sense — that is, it is knowable by direct experience that inspires awe and fascination, without necessarily being susceptible to definition — and also involves the notion of limit. Only that which comes to an end is beautiful.
Three handsome, rich young princes, one named Felibien, another, Roland, and the third, Aymeril, were travelling on horseback through all the countries of the world, followed by a multitude of servants and wagons loaded with their baggage. A chance meeting at an inn had made them friends, and they set off together. Why were they travelling?
For some, the city’s beauty lies in its geography, in its rivers and hills; for others, it is the monasteries, palaces, and bell towers. For me, it lies in the shades of people, real and imagined, who stroll around Patriarch’s Pond in June, when the nights are clear and cool, and puffs of pukh (cottonwood seed) float out across the water.
I’m reassured that beauty can be found in almost everything, depending on our focus, even if what we are looking at is the Buddhist affirmation of a lotus flower blooming out of stinky mud.
The unaligned poets, Maximilian Voloshin and Vladislav Khodasevich, were Neo-Classicists who constructed a haven for themselves from history in eternal things.
You dreamt of me, we are living a dream, you will forget me in another dream in which I shall return like the dream of a dream. Let’s take advantage of the moment. It’s now.
Separate yourself, take your distance, act as though you are not playing, as though you are not even hearing yourself. The error consists in believing that one is doing what one is doing when doing it. Above all, don’t attempt to attain silence or empty space. That is a pose. On the contrary, play as if you were in the middle of the street, at the heart of the racket…