Written in her French Psalter

W
No crooked leg, no bleared eye,
No part deformed out of kind,
Nor yet so ugly half can be
As is the inward suspicious mind.

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What shall I do with this absurdity —
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Decrepit age that has been tied to me
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Never had I more
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somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
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Snails by Francis Ponge
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Unlike the ashes that make their home with hot coals, snails prefer moist earth. Go on: they advance while gluing themselves to it with their entire bodies. They carry it, they eat it, they shit it. They go through it, it goes through them. It’s the best kind of interpenetration, as between tones, one passive and one active. The passive bathes and nourishes the active, which overturns the other while it eats.

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