“I confront the city with my body; my legs measure the length of the arcade and the width of the square; my gaze unconsciously projects my body onto the facade of the cathedral, where it roams over the moldings and contours, sensing the size of recesses and projections:”
“What I take with me, what I leave behind, are of less importance
than what I discover along the way.”
To write is also not to speak. It is to keep silent. It is to howl noiselessly.
När jag sover ensam med mig,
drömmer jag om dig.
När den första solstrålen väcker mig,
ler jag av min första tanke är om dig.
När jag promenerar i skogen
hittar jag dig i naturen,
som en magisk älva,
du gör att jag känner själv.
När solen går ner,
är jag glad mer.
När jag får sömn,
träffas vi i min dröm
“What strikes me is the fact that in our society, art has become something which is related only to objects and not to individuals, or to life. That art is something which is specialized or which is done by experts who are amsts. But couldn’t everyone’s life become a work of art? Why should the lamp or the house be an art object, but not our life?”