Its volcanic outpour – immeasurable, and its surface – cratering. Reach – unearthly, and that comforting glow – only an illusion. A companion in the dark and to those that need someone to talk to. It’s time we acknowledge this extraterrestrial friendship eh?
I’m reading Geetanjali by Rabindranath Tagore. I’ve only finished Yeats’s introduction of Tagore still, and I am in awe of his words. The grasp that he has on his readers even centuries later is commendable. It’s really confusing every time I read a Biography or a book that has been translated because I end up liking the translator and the biographer more. Walter Isaacson and Coleman Barks on my mind. Now, Yeats.