Lately I feel both introspective and very busy. There are tiny snatches of deep quiet that whisper to me in an instant and then are gone. I never seem ready to follow them to the great silence and peace, the fragrant clearing in the deep forest, but the whisper is nearly enough. At bedtime I put my face to my open bedroom window, breathe in the cool night air, listen as the leaves rustle in the wind, the insects gently buzz and sigh, an occasional car glides by or a train whistle sounds in the distance. The whole world seems to breathe deeply, gently, slowly as the night settles in. I wish that I could draw it to myself, fold it up and tuck it into my pillow to breathe its stillness to my soul as I sleep until morning. Instead, I breathe in the night and during the day try to notice the sun-glints of deep quiet that sparkle for just a moment, here and there, among the busy things I do all day.
As a way to follow that sparkle, that whisper, I rediscovered the following quote in an email folder for things to think about. It was sent to an email list months ago with the note that it's a translation of the text on
a German Web page.
The books of today are made of paper. The books of yesterday were made of skin. The Bible is the only book made of air -- a flood of ink and wind. A senseless book, mixed up in its meaning, likewise lost in its pages like the wind on the parking lots of supermarkets, in women's hair, in children's eyes. A book that is impossible to hold in two stable hands to read thoughtfully -- it will keep spilling away, will let the sand of its sentences sift through the fingers.
By Christian Bobin, "The Child, the Angel and the Dog."
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