This was in the news again (NYRB). In general terms the incidence violence may be decreasing but who cares about generalities?
Is there something about photographers and nostalgia, something about holding on to what cannot be held...time, itself, which is never really itself after all? Is it not the same with all of us? Or does this feeling become more intense at particular junctures in history-ones of rapid displacement or change?
Your hands grow dark with time, your smooth skin giving way to hair, blotches of sun shaped freckles. On the move again, never looking or finding, but stumbling. On your desk, right now, are sprawled many things, none of them very appealing-or if so, then only for a moment, not really a reverie one could get lost in. And still, you ask: my soul, why do you sigh within?
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