Close
To have a garden is to be possessed by a garden, the place of rendezvous, of unfolding, witness of continuous metamorphoses. Garden time was being relegated. A series of x-rays foreshadowed this moment, showing the inevitable. Arthritis became an obstacle to the gardener's hands and a green light for the garden to declare its freedom. I drew and painted like a Darwinian naturalist, while the vague memory of a book read many years ago flitted through my memory.
The text was imposed with necessity.
“Hans Castorp saw what he should have already expected, but which, in short, is not made for be seen by man, and which he would never have believed he could see: he looked into his own grave. He saw the future of decay, he saw it prefigured by the force of light, he saw the flesh in which he lived, decomposed, annihilated, dissolved in a non-existent fog, and in the middle of it the carefully chiseled skeleton of his right hand, around whose ring finger, the ring, from his grandfather, floated black and ugly: a hard object of this earth with which man adorns his body, which is destined to disappear, so that, once free, he goes to another flesh that may take him a new period of time... and for the first time in his life he understood that he was destined to die.' Mann, Thomas. The magic mountain.
