i pittori dividevano il verde in giallo e blu

and I'll be happy here and happy there, full of tea and tears. [...]

we are all happy and young and toothless it is the same as old age the only thing to do is simply continue is that simple yes, it is simple because it is the only thing to do can you do it yes, you can because it is the only thing to do blue light over the Bois de Boulogne it continues the Seine continues the Louvre stays open it continues it hardly closes at all the Bar Américain continues to be French de Gaulle continues to be Algerian as does Camus Shirley Goldfarb continues to be Shirley Goldfarb and Jane Hazan continues to be Jane Freilicher (I think!) and Irving Sandler continues to be the balayeur des artistes and so do I (sometimes I think I'm "in love" with painting) and surely the Piscine Deligny continues to have water in it and the Flore continues to have tables and newspapers                                                                           and people under them and surely we shall not continue to be unhappy we shall be happy but we shall continue to be ourselves everything                                                                         continues to be possible René Char, Pierre Reverdy, Samuel Beckett it is possible isn't it I love Reverdy for saying yes, though I don't believe it

The Day Lady Died - Frank O’ Hara

I wonder if one person out of the 8,000,000 is  thinking of me as I shake hands with LeRoi  and buy a strap for my wristwatch and go back to work happy at the thought possibly so

how are you feeling in ancient September I am feeling like a truck on a wet highway how can you you were made in the image of god  I was not  I was made in the image of a sissy truck-driver  and Jean Dubuffet painting his cows  "with a likeness burst in the memory"  apart from love (don't say it) I am ashamed of my century  for being so entertaining  but I have to smile

I am mainly preoccupied with the world as I experience it, and at times when I would rather be dead the thought that I could never write another poem has so far stopped me. . . . What is happening to me, allowing for lies and exaggerations which I try to avoid, goes into my poems. I don't think my experiences are clarified or made beautiful for myself or anyone else... It may be that poetry makes life's nebulous events tangible to me and restores their detail; or conversely, that poetry brings forth the intangible quality of incidents which are all too concrete and circumstantial.

Perché noi non sappiamo, no? Tutti sanno… cosa? Perché le cose vanno come vanno? Cosa? Tutto ciò che sta sotto l’anarchia del corso degli avvenimenti, le incertezze, i contrattempi, il disaccordo, le traumatiche irregolarità che caratterizzano le vicende umane? Nessuno sa, Professoressa Roux. "Tutti sanno" è l’invocazione del cliché e l’inizio della banalizzazione dell’esperienza, e sono proprio la solennità e la presunta autorevolezza con cui la gente formula il cliché a riuscire così insopportabili. Ciò che noi sappiamo è che, in un modo non stereotipato, nessuno sa nulla. Non puoi sapere nulla. Le cose che sai… non le sai. Intenzioni? Motivi? Conseguenze? Significati? Tutto ciò che non sappiamo è stupefacente. Ancor più stupefacente è quello che crediamo di sapere.