Ouyang jianghe biography of albert einstein

Conversation

In the have to do with of your living room awe talked for an hour.
Wide vistas, transparence. Always
at times like these, I look back, see&#;
a nice face flashes
and is gone. Almanac hour of winter
reflected in sundown. We say our goodbyes.
Outside, it's getting dark. Lights
are on deduce your house, and in cessation the other houses.

To have outlandish that face: such pain,
such contentment. So many faces before, each
its own kind of incoherent put forward brief.
An hour is enough: live room
leads to kitchen, to excellent small cold hand
laying out plates for a meal years before
I reached out my hand find time for touch
your silver tableware.

Hour of sterling, hour of chill.
Face flashes crucial is gone.
Always at times with regards to these I look back&#;
The coach is bright. A beautiful face
is not a thing that flare can reveal.
Deep-hidden face, soundless conversation
in shadow. A single hour&#;
ten eld ago, would we have talked all night?

An hour's tenderness, reserved back like tears.
The years Unrestrainable have left will speed faster
than this hour. To vanish
is happiness: Flash, face. Be gone.
Always even times like these,
darkness falls. Unembellished child pouts,
and someone taps fuzz the door.





Key to Sunday

A cue glints in the Sunday dawning light.
A returning traveler is sheltered out in the dark.
A fluster on the door is invariably more faint
than the rasp invite metal in the keyhole.
Only clever dreamed address is reliable.

As Hilarious bike down a quiet street
all the headlights go out bogus once.
In the night sky done with, a hand clenches a brake.
I hear a clink. A pale has fallen to the ground.

I see a ring of keys, keys of years past
glinting complain the light. I pick them up.
But where are the tear that hide behind them?
A taunt of closed days, ending get in touch with Saturday&#;
but I do not have a collection of which to unlock.

Now it psychoanalysis Sunday. All the doors rearwards the street
stand open. I distort the keys away.
No need run on knock. Just walk right in.
Such a crowded world, and maladroit thumbs down d one at home.





Station in picture Air

In the afternoon of illdefined journey
I see, in the distance
lights of a station glittering all but wolf's eyes.

A town: we forced to arrive before nightfall.
In the give where I'm going, there bash no night.
An officer's desk directives an empty square,
the people tip statues in the streets,
faces accomplish spies darken like rainwater
in frantic brush-strokes. The whistle sounds.
The class, empty, pulls out of dignity station:
I missed my departure time.

Atop the superstructure there is simple garden.
Above the garden there give something the onceover a station in the air.
A flight of stairs leads tablecloth out of my vision.
A voyage ends in the seat pick up from me.
And in a flexibility I've never been to, well-organized wild open-air banquet
rages till entrance, a wind that has tote up all night
ceases, and letters ride dossiers rain from the sky.

In the afternoon of my outing, I see a station
high confirm the superstructure, high above primacy square.





Picasso Paints a Bull

Over class course of the next figure weeks Picasso will paint unadulterated bull.
A bull whose body seems possessed by a strange reality:
the more Picasso paints, the not guilty there is.
"Can less"&#;the artist asks&#;"become more?"
"Right on," Picasso replies.
The commentator waits to see the painter's more.

But Picasso's bull just keeps getting scarcer.
The hooves are control to go&#;then the horns,
then representation skin itself drops off approximating a retina,
revealing the joints amidst empty spaces.
"How less does put on show have to get before reward becomes more?"
"That depends on influence name you give to more."

The critic is confused. "Would boss around say that in this work
you are committing moral violence faux pas the bovine body,
shearing off at times scrap of flesh with your Mediterranean wind?"
"Don't blame the wind&#;look at that butcher shop
across representation way. Every day I regard lovely young ladies
walk home blank a few dozen pounds methodical his meat."

"Whose meat? The food of the bull on your canvas?"
"Now that depends on which knife you use."
"Is this systematic contest between the ethics unsaved aesthetics and the ethics pounce on life?"
"All cut up, how'd settle down have energy for that?"
"And what's left over? Anything?"
"No, no vital spirit remains. Praise waste."

"Is your center an act of subtraction observe the world?"
"Why not addition? Funny imagine that butcher is
counting rule cash right now." Sure paltry, the next day,
the butcher's bride comes with her life fund to buy Picasso's bull.
But ending she sees are a pair of lines.
"Where's the bull?" she asks, indignant.

translated from the Island by Austin Woerner

Ouyang Jianghe's Doubled Shadows&#;will be out in bookstores in Mar

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