The living and the dead
The
ice-ferns on the window pane
The
crystals that grow in caustic soda
‘blindly’
and in recognisable shapes.
Strindberg
saw a draft of life
and
the longing of dead things
to
become living.
The cuddly animal that the child
carries with it everywhere
and
warms in its bed until it acquires a name
and
the whole family talks about it
as
one does about a real person.
The
tin soldiers with their stiff unhappy faces.
The Moorish
trumpeter who sits
high
up in the wonderful organ in Oliva
and
at a particular moment raises his trumpet
and
blows to three points of the compass. He is Moorish.
All
of that which imitates life fails
and
does not deceive us.
But
hovering around these things: crystals,
toys,
trumpeters
is an
expression of sorrow, of melancholy.
And that is no imitation.
We
sense it at once.
And are
reminded of ourselves.
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