±

        A sealed stillness
- only the stream moves,
tremor and furl of water
under dead leaves.

        In silence
the wood declares itself:
angles and arabesques of darkness,
branch, bramble,
tussocks of ghost grass
- under my heel
ice shivers
frail blue as sky
between the runes of trees.

        Far up
rooks, crows
flail home.

Frances Horovitz

±

We turn back onto the darkening path.

Frances Horovitz

±

While we talked of the difficulty of heating old houses, a strange feeling came upon me, as if it were not he who had abandoned that place of work but I, as if the spectacle cases, letters and writing materials that had evidently lain untouched for months in the soft northern light had once been my spectacle cases, my letters and my writing materials. In the porch that led to the garden, I felt again as if I or someone akin to me had long gone about his business there. The wicker baskets full of small twigs for kindling the fire, the polished white and pale grey stones, shells and other seashore finds mutedly foregathered on the chest of drawers against the pale blue wall … all seemed as if they were still lifes created by my own hand.

…

No matter how often I tell myself that chance happenings of this kind occur far more often than we suspect, since we all move, one after another, along the same roads mapped out for us by our origins and our hopes, my rational mind is nonetheless unable to lay the ghosts of repetition that haunt me with ever greater frequency. Scarcely am I in company but it seems as if I had already heard the same opinions expressed by the same people somewhere or other, in the same way, with the same words, turns of phrase and gestures.

…

Perhaps there is in this as yet unexplained phenomenon of apparent duplication some kind of anticipation of the end, a venture into the void, a sort of disengagement, which like a gramophone repeatedly playing the same sequence of notes, has less to do with damage to the machine itself than with an irreparable defect in its programme.

…

I have only an indistinct notion of how beautiful it all was, said Anne, nor can I properly describe now the feeling of being driven in that limousine that appeared to have no-one at the wheel. It was not really like driving at all, it was more like floating, in a way I have not experienced since my childhood, when I was able to hover a few inches above the ground. As Anne was talking, we had walked out together into the garden, where night had already fallen. We waited for the taxi beside the Hölderlin pump, and by the faint light that fell from the living-room window into the well I saw, with a shudder that went to the roots of my hair, a beetle rowing across the surface of the water, from one dark shore to the other.

W.G. Sebald

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I felt like a man walking in the dark, beset with uncertain sounds and faint echoes of his footsteps that seem to come from a vast depth, till he begins to fear that he is treading by the edge of some awful precipice. There was something unknown about me; and I was holding on hard to what I knew, and wondering whether I should be sustained.

Arthur Machen

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Swarms of strange, shy, sad-looking singers and instrumental performers, in the work-worn clothing of factory operatives, went about the busy city, pleading for help in touching wails of simple song ― like so many wild birds driven by hard weather to the haunts of man…

Anybody accustomed to wander among the moorlands of the country will remember how common it is to hear the people practising sacred music in their lonely cottages. It is not uncommon to meet working men wandering over the wild hills, “where whin and heather grow,” with their musical instruments, to take part in some village oratorio many miles away.

Quoted from Home-life of the Lancashire factory folk during the Cotton Famine, Edwin Waugh