“…the eighteenth century bourgeoisie yoked together what was pleasurable and what was necessary. They argued that there was no inherent conflict between sexual passion and the practical demands of raising children in a family unit, and that there could hence be romance within a marriage—just as…
“I have been studying the difference
between solitude and loneliness,
telling the story of my life
to the clean white towels taken warm from the dryer.
I carry them through the house
as though they were my children
asleep in my arms.”—
“The land here is being carelessly killed. Children are playing around the church. During the night I was very cold. An old man crosses the bridge, unaware that he’s being watched. He walks so slowly and ponderously, pausing again and again after short, hesitant steps; that is Death walking with him. All is shrouded still in semi-darkness. Low clouds, it won’t be a good day. Till’s weeding took place on the mountain, which was covered with snow, and I pushed Grandma up the mountain. Erika cried down from above that we should remain seated where we were. I said, “First of all, we’re not sitting and, secondly, where are we supposed to sit in this wet snow?” An athletic, shorn sheep that had strayed on to the village road approached me in the darkness, bleating at me, then it lapsed back into its elastic trot. Now, as dawn approaches, the sparrows stir. The village was sluggish yesterday, like a caterpillar in the cold. Today, on Sunday, it’s already become the chrysalis. Because of the frost, the earthworms unable to cross the asphalt road have burst. Underneath the eaves of tin, where one can sit outside in the summer, loneliness is crouching now, ready to spring.”—
from the “Sunday 8 December” entry of Werner Herzog’s Of Walking In Ice.