à la mémoire d'illustres artistes de la vie



à la mémoire d'illustres artistes de la autre vie

 Georges Méliès


Jacqueline du Pré

“Playing lifts you out of yourself into a delirious place.”

“The intense perfumes of the wild herbs as we trod them underfoot made us feel almost drunk.”

We need to give each other the space to grow, to be ourselves, to exercise our diversity. We need to give each other space so that we may both give and receive such beautiful things as ideas, openness, dignity, joy, healing, and inclusion.”

 “We cannot become what we need to be by remaining what we are.”


 “The greatest thing is, at any moment, to be willing to give up who we are in order to become all that we can be.”



Sylvia Plath

The blood jet is poetry,

There is no stopping it. - 'Kindness'


"Nights, I squat in the cornucopia
Of your left ear, out of the wind,
Counting the red stars and those of plum-color.
The sun rises under the pillar of your tongue.
My hours are married to shadow.
No longer do I listen for the scrape of a keel
On the blank stones of the landing."


Teresa Wilms Montt

"Los ojos cerrados, busco dormirme.
En hondas de colores extraños baja a mis pupilas la noche, precisando formas de fantasmas alejados en mi memoria.
Con pasos de héroe marcha mi pensamiento, taloneando en mi nuca, dando vueltas rudamente como a un molino.
Sobre la mesa de noche exhalan su aliento venenoso jacintos morados cargando mi respiración de pesadez amarga y dulce.
Hay una soledad en mi ser como la de una ahogada en el estanque.
Buscando luz en el corazón de las constelaciones, Anuarí me abandonó.
Pensativa con la severidad del granito me inclino dentro de mí misma, y hundo en el caos de mi Nada."
Vacía está mi mente y ¡he pensado tanto!
Hueco mi corazón y ¡he querido tanto!
Errante y siempre errante mi espíritu que ha vagado tanto
¡Soy el genio de la nada!

Alta Mar
De tanta angustia que me roe, guardo un silencio que se unifica a la entraña del océano.
En la noche cuando los hombres duermen, mis ojos haciendo tríptico con el farol del palo mayor, velan con el fervor de un lampadario ante la inmensidad del universo.
El austro sopla trayendo a los muertos cuyas sombras húmedas de sal acarician mi cabellera desordenada.
Agonizando vivo y el mar está a mis pies y el firmamento coronando mis sienes.

Hermann Hesse

"Ich weiss, du gehst" 1899


 “For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow.

Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.

A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.

A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.

When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.

A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one's suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.

So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.”
Hermann Hesse, Bäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte

Weil ich dich liebe
"Weil ich dich liebe, bin ich des Nachts
So wild und flüsternd zu dir gekommen,
Und dass du mich nimmer vergessen kannst,
Hab ich deine Seele mitgenommen.
Sie ist nun bei mir und gehört mir ganz
Im Guten und auch im Bösen;
Von meiner wilden, brennenden Liebe
Kann dich kein Engel erlösen."



  Sophia Magdalena Scholl


étudiante allemande activiste antinazie sous le régime d'Hitler

"Im Namen der deutschen Jugend fordern wir vom Staat Adolf Hitlers die persönliche Freiheit zurück" und "Kampf gegen die Partei", stand dort geschrieben. Die Geschwister Scholl und die anderen Mitglieder der "Weißen Rose" brachten sich mit diesem Protest in Lebensgefahr. Denn wer zur Zeit des Nationalsozialismus offen gegen die Nazis wetterte, wurde verhaftet oder sogar getötet."
« Comment peut on s'attendre à ce que la justice prévale quand il n'y a presque personne pour se sacrifier individuellement pour une juste cause. Un si beau jour, ensoleillé, et je dois m’en aller, mais ma mort compte-t-elle, si grâce à nous, des milliers de gens sont éveillés et décidés à agir ? »
 "denme una ventana abierta"

A Sophia Magdalena Scholl, en su encierro...

...Pensaba en la ventana y la buscaba… el cuarto parecía inmenso y friolento, la soledad me abrumaba, sabia que mi única salida del callejón era la ventana de mi cuarto, a lo mejor estaba cerrada, a lo mejor no existía y me tocaba construirla, inventármela… entonces me fui como arando, tocando las paredes de mi cuarto buscando sus fortalezas y sus debilidades, la golpeaba, sonaba sólida y pensaba que tendría que buscar un cincel y un mazo…

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Please, be kind with your Universe.