"...to enclose the present moment; to make it stay; to fill it fuller and fuller, with the past, the present and the future, until it shone, whole, bright, deep with understanding."

Virgina Woolf, The Years


Music for mermaids (ou à la recherche du J. A. P. perdu)

                                                                                       There was nothing in our hands
                                                                                       no history      
                                                                                       no waiting, no memory
                                                                                       no fate
                                                                                       there was only one moment
                                                                                       only one moment
                                                                                       our hearts were on fire
                                                                                       and it burned in our bones.
                                                                                          -Our Hearts, Firehorse

An indeed there was no time
to wonder, "Do I dare?" and "Do I dare?"
There was time to turn back and ascend the stair,
Time to disturb the universe
with a hundred visions and decisions
that no revisions could reverse.
Time for you and time for me.

For either of us could be Hamlet,
and we've both had our prophet.
We did not let the moment of our greatness flicker,
we just bit off the matter with a smile,
we squeezed the universe into a ball
and rolled it towards some overwhelming question,
We each said: "I have been Lazarus, come from the dead,
I could tell you all, but I shall not tell you all."

And it was worth it, after all, it was worth while
when, settling a pillow by each other's head
we did not need to say: "That is what I mean,
indeed, that is it".

And in short, we were not afraid.

En busca del tiempo perdido XVI

Otras veces, el tiempo es como un perfume que no se puede describir, un perfume que es sólo tangible en la piel de algún otro, que se eleva sólo para convertirse en la memoria de su esencia, cada vez más tenue, cada vez más estrecha dentro del abrazo que la aferra.

En busca del tiempo perdido XV

A veces, el tiempo también encuentra la manera de regresar: da un salto gigantesco y alcanza una coordenada tan cercana que es casi la misma: escapa del no, y encarna finalmente el sí.