journal d'O.


" He was describing, as all young poets are for ever describing,
nature, and in order to match the shade of green precisely he looked (and
here he showed more audacity than most) at the thing itself, which
happened to be a laurel bush growing beneath the window. After that, of
course, he could write no more. Green in nature is one thing, green in
literature another. Nature and letters seem to have a natural antipathy;
bring them together and they tear each other to pieces. The shade of
green Orlando now saw spoilt his rhyme and split his metre. Moreover,
nature has tricks of her own. Once look out of a window at bees among
flowers, at a yawning dog, at the sun setting, once think 'how many more
suns shall I see set', etc. etc. (the thought is too well known to be
worth writing out) and one drops the pen, takes one's cloak, strides out
of the room, and catches one's foot on a painted chest as one does so.
For Orlando was a trifle clumsy. "

Virginia Woolf, Orlando : a Biography (1928)

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jeudi 31 août 2006

Odilon Redon : Ophélie parmi les fleurs