I recently finished reading the sublime Memoirs of Hadrian, Marguerite Yourcenar, am still shaken by the indescribable human beauty, and literary history of this work.
Since September, the Arts and Crafts fairs and Christmas markets, I just wrote and read a lot. It's amazing what reading is intimately linked to writing! Reading is almost as tedious as writing: I take notes, transcribed excerpts, look in the dictionary. On the passage comes an idea for my own book (which I will talk of Blessed non-development) or the wonder of having developed an idea in a angle that I thought exclusive but is approached with almost the same perspective as the author)
I withdraw, however, very frustrated playing this magnificent work: the idea of thinking that 18 months ago I was in Italy and saw the Castel Sant'Angelo beside the Vatican but are given the attention it deserved because we were presented as such rather than as the Mausoleum of Hadrian. You do not look such a work the same way when you realize its rich history, when one "knows" the man who is buried there!
In Rome, just next to our hotel, there was this magnificent building.
Just ahead, a huge column that I have not photographed (Bouhouhou!), Unaware of its rich history. It was the Trajan column, here, and I realized, after reading the incredible opportunity to observe more carefully next to where I went. This column contains 200 meters of bas-reliefs telling the story of the wars of Trajan (Emperor Hadrian prior) and artistic means and military time. I was there, and I did not then realize how important! Grrrr!
It is something shocking to find themselves before a heavy historic symbols and relics of the past. We do not consider the same manner when not only we know, but we also feels strongly.
I felt that way before Where we come from? What are we? Where are we going? , the famous huge painting of Gauguin Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. Because it's my favorite artist, because I read his books and I know intimately the emotional, madness, obsession, illness, sex delusions and suffering who lived during the design of his works (this, above all), the look that I posed was profoundly weakened by what he contains.
I hope to have another chance to travel. Similar frustrations, I will still. I guess one way or another, tracing a route of travel, we must make choices. I wanted to see the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. I saw in him cried with emotion, shaken. Maybe he should focus on these moments rather than biting the knuckles of everything that has not seen and will never see.
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