For other people, in a sense, I do not exist. I am the color of dead leaves, like certain unnoticed insects.
Car pour les autres, en quelque sorte, je n'existe pas. Je suis couleur feuille morte, comme certains insectes.
"A peculiar anthologic maze, an amusing literary chaos, a farrago of quotations, a mere olla podrida of quaintness, a pot pourri of pleasant delites, a florilegium of elegant extracts, a tangled fardel of old-world flowers of thought, a faggot of odd fancies, quips, facetiae, loosely tied" (Holbrook Jackson, Anatomy of Bibliomania) by a "laudator temporis acti," a "praiser of time past" (Horace, Ars Poetica 173).
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Friday, January 31, 2014
Camouflage
Simone Weil (1909-1943), letter to Joseph-Marie Perrin (May 26, 1942), in Waiting for God, tr. Emma Craufurd (New York: Harper & Row, 1973), p. 101: