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John Berger

And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief As Photos

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  • Anindya Khas quoted6 years ago
    Poems, even when narrative, do not resemble stories. All stories are about battles, of one kind or another, which end in victory and defeat.
  • Alejandra Espinohas quoted2 years ago
    The way that it appeared and disappeared gave it the mysterious intimacy of a household god. I have always thought that household gods were animals. Sometimes visible and sometimes invisible, but always present
  • Cristina Salazarhas quoted6 years ago
    Thus in man two times coexist, corresponding with these two events. T
  • Cristina Salazarhas quoted6 years ago
    Imagining the constellations did not of course change the stars, nor did it change the black emptiness that surrounds them. What it changed was the way people read the night sky.
  • Cristina Salazarhas quoted6 years ago
    have always thought that household gods were animals. Sometimes visible and sometimes invisible, but always present.
  • Ольгаhas quoted8 years ago
    The visible implies an eye. It is the stuff of the relation between seen and seer. Yet the seer, when human, is conscious of what his eye cannot and will never see because of time and distance. The visible both includes him (because he sees) and excludes him (because he is not omnipresent). The visible consists for him of the seen which, even when it is threatening, confirms his existence, and of the unseen which defies that existence. The desire to have seen—the ocean, the desert, the aurora borealis—has a deep ontological basis.
  • Ольгаhas quoted8 years ago
    your island
    does the night fall later?
    Am I walking a little ahead of you
    so that no snake will bite
    your sandalled foot?
    The balance is never made.
    This is why the stars are silent
    offering no account.
    How to measure
    a season
    against
    the calendar of your absence?
    How to measure
    the stream
    of my tangled light
    in the mountain
    of what has been
    and will be?
    The balance is never made.
    Yet in the night your eyes and mine
    sounding one another
    show no trace of vertigo.
  • Ольгаhas quoted8 years ago
    There are castles, there are lines which could be and have been defended, deaths, but there are no final barriers. This is why herring can be fished from water surrounded by brackened hills. This is why the sky can appear to have more flesh on it, to be more hospitable, than the land. Here between the land and sky it is like a shore. And as the seashore smells of seaweed, so this shore smells of uncounted time.
  • Ольгаhas quoted8 years ago
    The crofters’ cottages crouch like animals sheltering on the ground for the night. Everything moves on, the larches, the bracken, the caledonian pines, the heather, the juniper bushes, the scrap grass. And then moving into the land, water: the rivers running to the sea, the sea with its tides filling lochs. And across both land and water the wind. And, above all, the northwest wind. The honking of the wild geese in the sky is like a fleeting measure, a counting in another algebra, of all this movement.
  • Ольгаhas quoted8 years ago
    singer may be innocent
    never the song. With its instantaneous eyes
    opened on to the world
    and its heart laid bare,
    the song is brazen,
    the song is newborn.
    Only when it has quietened
    can listeners resume by habit
    the innocence of their age.
    When a great singer sings, the skin of space and of time go taut,
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