Ilse’s Reviews > A Wreath of Roses > Status Update

Life itself is an unfinished sentence, or a few haphazard brush-strokes. Nothing stays. Nothing is completed. The meaning of a painting is a voice crying out:"I saw it. Before it vanished, it was thus." An honest painting would never be finished; an honest novel would stop in the middle of a sentence.There is no shutting life up in a cage, turning the key with a full-stop, with a stroke of paint.

Upon this impermanence we set up our easels and paint our pictures. What goes on to the canvas is the ticking of our hearts, the pulse of our lives. Yet when we die, what will happen? Those manifestos of ours against the indifference of the world will lie, face down, among old books and ornaments in junk-shops, in attics.

It's just that people are like doors. They all lead you into empty rooms. You pass through and are left with yourself.

Duty is very simple and obvious. It is nearly always what you don't want to do.

When Camilla opened the door, birds burst up out of bushes, flurrying the leaves, plunged into the dense creeper over the walls.The garden was still, soaked with dew, veiled with a pearly light as if sponged with milk. A little tree of morello cherries seemed painted upon the sky, its fruit luminously red like cherries on a hat.

The one she painted last summer was the best she ever did. The one of the room with the lace curtains. A very tender light flowing through them.'

'Yes, that was what I call a picture. Perhaps we always want paintings to be like novels.'