Having an intriguing conversation with a friend regarding language and today stumbled upon an used copy of Nietzsche essays on Schopenhauer and Wagner; and I am tossed again into the delightful pool of graduate school-level ponderings of the world of appearances, the constructs of language, etc. Reminded me of this poem--enjoy!
The Ghost of Walter Benjamin Walks at Midnight
by Charles Wrightwithout words or parts of speech.
It's a language of objects
Our tongues can't master,
but which we are the ardent subjects of.
If tree is tree in English,
and albero in Italian,
That's as close as we can come
To divinity, the language that circles the earth
and which we'll never speak.
I love that - a simple poem about everything which confuses me.
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