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I drink from a small spring, / my thirst excedes the ocean.

Adam Zagajewski

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Drink Ocean Small Spring

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This day’s nothingness as if from spite became a flame and scorched the lips of children and poets.
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Gabriel Levin’s book is a journey through time and through entrenched animosities of the Middle East.
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A little rain, a little blood. Black fingernails in August; and going berserk, going bananas.
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Read for yourselves, read for the sake of your inspiration, for the sweet turmoil in your lovely head.
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I don’t need to explain why it’s a curse.
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Defend the value of the spiritual experience and if somebody tells you it’s an old fashioned notion, laugh loudly and serenely.
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Remember that the act of writing is a tiny part of a bigger something.
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And tracing the labyrinthine ways of your mind, the haphazard vagaries of your thoughts at ease,
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As if entrapped in a tropical heatwave, with dozens of whirlwinds swirling in one’s mind, one thinks of a way out, or a way in: out of the scorching bosom of a volcano, and in – into the centre of a raging hurricane.
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I drink from a small spring, / my thirst excedes the ocean.
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Time takes life away and gives us memory, gold with flame, black with embers.
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Once in a while it vanishes – in the sense that I become deaf to beauty for a week or two or three.
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Clear moments are so short. There is much more darkness.
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And also read those whose darkness or malice or madness or greatness you can’t understand because only in this way will you grow, outlive yourself, and become what you are.
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What’s astonishing and refreshing is his ability to combine the reporter’s perspective with a deep knowledge of poetry, including pre-Islamic Arab poems.
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