it is never easy to begin a sequel. one anthropologist is meandering between south-eastern and north-western europe. this weblog walks along the dee, the atert and the bosphorus, considering worthy of attention the fresh-water fish, d’lëtschen, lovers entwined along the water shore, mosquitoes, schleisen and keels of all kinds. its anti-hero, nutshell-kit, has been writing a thesis, learning to recognise the use and abuse of meandering, and following conversations taking odd turns. she may be interested in a lot of things, but lacks the concentration to make lists. she particularly likes to dance on the rooftops at dawn, revelling in her vertigo. she is part-kitten, part-tempest, part-ordinary dreams. she likes to think she was a dervish in a former life. she writes pompous things like that and laughs about them loudly. do take her seriously enough, and feed her your own worlds.
this is by nizar qibbani – it’s called ‘to the reader’… someone once said i should aim for highest possible standards in writing even in the full knowledge that my limits are such that i will never quite emulate the masters.
and i am fine with that square millimetre of manoeuvre possibility.
so, amaze me, and be my echo, and we can sing together.
Statement to the Reader (translation by Salman M. Hilmy):
I fill my pocket with stars; And build for myself a place to sit; On the seat of the sun.
Sunset weeps on my balcony; And cries for a rendezvous with me.
I am a sail that cannot stand a journey’s end; I am a loss that wants no guidance.
My letters are swarms of swallows; That drape the clear sky with their black mantle.
I have imagined till I made perfumes visible; And resonance of the echo smell.
In my red veins is a woman; Who walks with me in the folds of my gown; Hisses and blows in my bones; To turn my lungs into a brazier.
Your beauty springs from me—without me;You’d be nothing, without me you wouldn’t be; Without me no rose would bloom; No breast would bubble or revel.
O reader, my travel companion; I’m the lips and you’re the echo.
I plead with you, be soft and tender; If tomorrow you embrace my letters; When you pass by them remember; The torture of these letters to exist.
No one dies who in time has loved; No one dies who—like a bird—has sung.