And I'll love you the best way I know how
Natashan laulu tilassa ja mus. Mus mus. Mussutan avokadoleipää pestolla, mustapippurilla ja sitruunalla. Ai että voivat maut ja tuoksut minua ilahduttaa. Sitruunassa haistan pääsiäisen
ja takatalvisessa valossa kuulen pianon, muinaisen miehen nuottimerkinnät.
But I've got so much wickedness and sin. Mielisin saattaa menneet kuut päivänvaloon, mustaksi valkoiselle, mutta en jaksa kirjoittaa romaaninmittaista merkintää. Tahdon paljastaa ja piiloutua. Säilyttää salaisuudet mutta lävähtää auki. Kenelle? Hänelle ja hänelle ja sinulle. Mitä mää horisen? Olen moraaliton kevätportto, mutta toisaalta kammioitunut nunna, joka tuijottaa huhtikuista lumiharsoa puiden oksilla. Onpa kauniit puut, nuo ikkunantakaiset. Tomusokeriin kastetut. Tekeekö se niistä sittenkin äklöt. Kun aina voi nähdä monin tavoin. Tuomita tai hyväksyä tai ihmetellä. Kauhistua tai vihata tai antaa olla. Antaa. Olla.
Luen vanhaa sanomalehteä. "Franzenia voi muuttua päiväkodiksi." "Ummikkokin voi ihastua klassiseen musiikkiin." Kaik lienee mahdollista.
Minäkin tiukistelija höllyn, kun yöllä luen
--- There is scarcely anything more difficult than to love one another. That is work, day labor, day labor. God knows there is no other word for it. And look, added to this is the fact that young people are not prepared for such difficult loving; for convention has tried to make this most complicated and ultimate relationship into something easy and frivolous, has given it the appearance of everyone's being able to do it. It is not so. Love is something difficult and it is more difficult than other things because in other conflicts nature herself enjoins men to collect themselves, to take themselves firmly in hand with all their strength, while in the heightening of love the impulse is to give oneself wholly away. But just think, can that be anything beautiful, to give oneself away not as something whole and ordered, but haphazard rather, bit by bit, as it comes? Can such giving away, that looks so like a throwing away and dismemberment, be anything good, can it be happiness, joy, progress? No, it cannot.. When you give someone flowers, you arrange them beforehand, don't you? But young people who love each other fling themselves to each other in the impatience and haste of their passion and they don't notice at all what a lack of mutual esteem lies in this disordered giving of themselves; they notice it with astonishment and indignation only from the dissension that arises between them out of all this disorder. And once there is disunity between them, the confusion grows every day: neither of the two has anything unbroken, pure and unspoiled about him any longer, and amid the disconsolateness of a break they try to hold fast to the semblance of their happiness (for all that was really supposed to be for the sake of happiness). ---
ja takatalvisessa valossa kuulen pianon, muinaisen miehen nuottimerkinnät.
But I've got so much wickedness and sin. Mielisin saattaa menneet kuut päivänvaloon, mustaksi valkoiselle, mutta en jaksa kirjoittaa romaaninmittaista merkintää. Tahdon paljastaa ja piiloutua. Säilyttää salaisuudet mutta lävähtää auki. Kenelle? Hänelle ja hänelle ja sinulle. Mitä mää horisen? Olen moraaliton kevätportto, mutta toisaalta kammioitunut nunna, joka tuijottaa huhtikuista lumiharsoa puiden oksilla. Onpa kauniit puut, nuo ikkunantakaiset. Tomusokeriin kastetut. Tekeekö se niistä sittenkin äklöt. Kun aina voi nähdä monin tavoin. Tuomita tai hyväksyä tai ihmetellä. Kauhistua tai vihata tai antaa olla. Antaa. Olla.
Luen vanhaa sanomalehteä. "Franzenia voi muuttua päiväkodiksi." "Ummikkokin voi ihastua klassiseen musiikkiin." Kaik lienee mahdollista.
Minäkin tiukistelija höllyn, kun yöllä luen
--- There is scarcely anything more difficult than to love one another. That is work, day labor, day labor. God knows there is no other word for it. And look, added to this is the fact that young people are not prepared for such difficult loving; for convention has tried to make this most complicated and ultimate relationship into something easy and frivolous, has given it the appearance of everyone's being able to do it. It is not so. Love is something difficult and it is more difficult than other things because in other conflicts nature herself enjoins men to collect themselves, to take themselves firmly in hand with all their strength, while in the heightening of love the impulse is to give oneself wholly away. But just think, can that be anything beautiful, to give oneself away not as something whole and ordered, but haphazard rather, bit by bit, as it comes? Can such giving away, that looks so like a throwing away and dismemberment, be anything good, can it be happiness, joy, progress? No, it cannot.. When you give someone flowers, you arrange them beforehand, don't you? But young people who love each other fling themselves to each other in the impatience and haste of their passion and they don't notice at all what a lack of mutual esteem lies in this disordered giving of themselves; they notice it with astonishment and indignation only from the dissension that arises between them out of all this disorder. And once there is disunity between them, the confusion grows every day: neither of the two has anything unbroken, pure and unspoiled about him any longer, and amid the disconsolateness of a break they try to hold fast to the semblance of their happiness (for all that was really supposed to be for the sake of happiness). ---