#bishop berkeley

we arguing idealism through poems now???

God in the quad // Ronald knox

Aucun bruit dans le forêt que le frémissement léger de la neige tombant sur les arbres. Elle tombait depuis midi, une petite neige fine qui poudrait les branches d’une mousse glacée qui jetait sur les feuilles mortes des fourrés un léger toit d’argent, étendait par les chemins un immense tapis moelleux et blanc, et qui épaississait illimité de cet océan d’arbres* inside the forest is no sound the weight of the deaf world never stirs the fragile hammer or makes resound the feather anvil set in the shell, waxy like a leech’s bowl of blood ocean of trees can be no ocean private tide of blood that is no ocean the shell from the sea and the poet’s tricks, the deafness of whiteness and the soundless fall of snow have fooled the ear since sound began *There was no noise in the forest – just the merest shiver of snow falling on the trees. It had been falling since noon – a fine powdery snow covering the branches with an icy foam; throwing a light silvery covering onto the dead leaves of the bushes; spreading an immense, soft blanket of white across the paths; immeasurably thickening this ocean of trees. (Author’s translation of part of a Maupassant short story) 17th July 2019