[Poetry] may make us from time to time a little aware of the deeper unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
I'm spending many weeks of this first half of the year in Oslo. I'm getting used to a blinding sunlight that lingers low on the horizon for endless minutes before falling behind the western line. My shadow walks distant far from me.