Les Chansons des rues et des bois est un recueil de poèmes de Victor Hugo publié en 1866 en France, mais l'édition originale de cet ouvrage a été publiée en ...
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The foundation : a great American secret : how private wealth is changing the world / Joel L. Fleishman2007
英文報導：disegnodaily on Poetic Lab
大好設計河山：“竹林” - Poetic Lab 詩研所
中文媒體「破點 Rapaq 」 文具系列專訪：
中文媒體「MOT times」 文具系列專訪：
中文媒體「MOT times」 studio專訪：
1. https://vimeo.com/912986292. https://vimeo.com/90305932
兩則短片一者是 Ripple 在2013年米蘭家具展得獎後，與維也納200年水晶老工坊 Lobmeyr 合作量產，
譯評：英文rent 是 rend的過去/完成式，表示撕裂。英譯採用墜落下時與雲"碰撞"而受傷。
The New York Times Book Review: Aug. 21, 2016
...Finally, please welcome our newest columnist, Meghan Daum, one of my favorite contemporary essayists. Daum's bimonthly column, Egos, will look at new memoir and autobiography. This week she reviews three memoirs about growing up gay..."
'Inside My Head I'm a Girl': Three Ways of Growing Up Gay
By MEGHAN DAUM
New personal accounts show diverse experiences of growing up gay, from the ordeal of conversion therapy to an unexpectedly elite cultural education.
許多有意思的資料，譬如說，頁274 的1934年6.20~8.16? 的日本行，"亞洲各殖民地區搞"民族自決"運動的志士住在東京活動的為數不少......儘量協助他們，希望他們的運動成功"。
A wheel in the pure syntax of steel.
The mountain stripped bare of Impressionist fog,
The grays watching over the last balustrades.
clip the square root's sterilized flower.
In the waters of the Seine a marble iceberg
chills the windows and scatters the ivy.
Crystals hide from the magic of reflections.
The Government has closed the perfume stores.
The machine perpetuates its binary beat.
roams across the roofs of the old houses.
The air polishes its prism on the sea
and the horizon rises like a great aqueduct.
behead the sirens on the seas of lead.
Night, black statue of prudence, holds
the moon's round mirror in her hand.
Here comes the man who sees with a yellow ruler.
Venus is a white still life
and the butterfly collectors run away.
lifts flights of stairs and hides seashells.
Wooden flutes pacify the air.
An ancient woodland god gives the children fruit.
On the high sea a rose is their compass.
The horizon, virgin of wounded handkerchiefs,
links the great crystals of fish and moon.
encircles bitter foreheads and hair of sand.
The sirens convince, but they don't beguile,
and they come if we show a glass of fresh water.
I do not praise your halting adolescent brush
or your pigments that flirt with the pigment of your times,
but I laud your longing for eternity with limits.
You run from the dark jungle of improbable forms.
Your fancy reaches only as far as your hands,
and you enjoy the sonnet of the sea in your window.
in the foreground where man is found.
But now the stars, concealing landscapes,
reveal the perfect schema of their courses.
in the numbered forms of century after century.
And conquered Death takes refuge trembling
in the tight circle of the present instant.
you call on the light that brings the olive tree to life.
The broad light of Minerva, builder of scaffolds,
where there is no room for dream or its hazy flower.
not descending to the mouth or the heart of man.
A light feared by the loving vines of Bacchus
and the chaotic force of curving water.
along the dark limit that shines in the night.
As a painter, you refuse to have your forms softened
by the shifting cotton of an unexpected cloud.
You refuse to invent them in the sea or the air.
You stylize or copy once you have seen
their small, agile bodies with your honest eyes.
where the toadstool cannot pitch its camp.
You love the architecture that builds on the absent
and admit the flag simply as a joke.
Unknown clouds rise to deny the sphere exists.
The straight line tells of its upward struggle
and the learned crystals sing their geometries.
Always the rose, always, our north and south!
Calm and ingathered like an eyeless statue,
not knowing the buried struggle it provokes.
opening for us the slender wings of the smile.
(Pinned butterfly that ponders its flight.)
Rose of balance, with no self-inflicted pains.
Always the rose!
I speak of what your person and your paintings tell me.
I do not praise your halting adolescent brush,
but I sing the steady aim of your arrows.
your love of what might be made clear.
I sing your astronomical and tender heart,
a never-wounded deck of French cards.
your fear of the feelings that await you in the street.
I sing the small sea siren who sings to you,
riding her bicycle of corals and conches.
that joins us in the dark and golden hours.
The light that blinds our eyes is not art.
Rather it is love, friendship, crossed swords.
but the breast of Theresa, she of sleepless skin,
the tight-wound curls of Mathilde the ungrateful,
our friendship, painted bright as a game board.
streak the heart of eternal Catalunya.
May stars like falconless fists shine on you,
while your painting and your life break into flower.
or the hard scythe of the allegory.
Always in the air, dress and undress your brush
before the sea peopled with sailors and ships.