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The darkest word in English is the darkness. The real darkness differs from a starkness, a rut of death with pennies on her lids. The darkness, I repeat, has no bearing on covered mirrors, farewells, despairing and mourning lilies in the widow's weeds. Oh, how I care the darkness of a starless and empty space a plot is coming from, a flash of inspiration and a parlous script twist, a weird content, a new form. The form, the content and the emptiness which is composed of everything... I guess, this sort of darkness fills a poet's pen. Not pen but veins! One day, I know, my blood, my sleeplessness, my poetry, my art will turn into the darkness once again. * См. перевод в комментарии 1. |
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