"How many of the ragged workingmen who pass him in the street are secret authors of works that will outlast them: roads, walls, pylons? Immortality of a kind, a limited immortality, is not so hard to achieve after all. Why then does he persist in inscribing marks on paper, in the faint hope that people not yet born will take the trouble to decipher them?"
— From ‘Summertime’: Notebooks 1972–1975 | The New York Review of Books
Posted 1 year ago with 3 notesView Notes
-
nybooks liked this
-
tremblebot liked this
-
zzzan reblogged this from mikereview
-
mikereview posted this