A Pang is more conspicuous in Spring
In contrast with the things that sing
Not Birds entirely – but Minds –
And Winds – Minute Effulgencies
When what they sung for is undone
Who cares about a Blue Bird's Tune –
Why, Resurrection had to wait
Till they had moved a Stone –

Emily Dickinson, ca. 1881

So in an age of acceleration, nothing can be more accelerating than going slow. And in an age of distraction, nothing is so luxurious as paying attention. And in an age of constant movement, nothing is so urgent as sitting still.

Pico Iyer in this episode of ted radio hour. 

What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? --- it's the too huge world vaulting us in, and it's goodbye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.

Jack Kerouac in On The Road (1957)
(Excerpt from On The Road - The Original Scroll, published by Penguin Books in 2008, p. 255)

Gå på med dødsforakt - skap dig et navn - ikke for å leve og tjene av det - nei - lev livet - vi vet ikke hvad dag våre hjem ligger i ruiner. Ingen gir bort noget - vi må selv være med i dansen - helst foran. Og jo mer vi lever - jo mer vil vi leve - og åpne andres øine for at livet allikevel er skjønt å leve - sol - blomster - hav - himmel - sjø - fugler - musikk.
Det er bare kunsten som kan redde verden idag, musikk og liv.

Bendik Riis i et brev til Paul Johnsen 1940
hentet fra CDROM «Bendik Riis. Maler og poet.» 2010

"What is dance? I am dancing all the time. Every gesture, the body line of every pose, the way I get from place to place, the movement in the acting - none of it would be the way it is if I weren't a dancer." - Ray Bolger


The Song of the Ungrit Runners

We swing ungirded hips, 
And lightened are our eyes, 
The rain is on our lips, 
We do not run for prize. 
We know not whom we trust 
Nor whitherward we fare, 
But we run because we must 
Through the great wide air. 

The waters of the seas 
Are troubled as by storm. 
The tempest strips the trees 
And does not leave them warm. 
Does the tearing tempest pause? 
Do the tree-tops ask it why? 
So we run without a cause 
'Neath the big bare sky. 

The rain is on our lips, 
We do not run for prize. 
But the storm the water whips 
And the wave howls to the skies. 
The winds arise and strike it 
And scatter it like sand, 
And we run because we like it 
Through the broad bright land.
by Charles Hamilton Sorley