It could be said: show me how you see Hamlet, and I will tell you who you are.
Ludwig Flazen in the chapter 'Hamlet in the Theatrical Laboratory' from Grotowski & Company (2010), p. 101
|The East Wind by (1918) Charles Burchfield|
Eventually I could play from when I woke until the time I slept. I stopped playing the songs I knew and started inventing new ones. I had made up songs before, had even helped my father composa a verse or two. But now I gave it my whole attention. Some of those songs have stayed with me until this day.
Soon after I began paying... how can I describe it?
I began to play something other than songs. When the sun warms the grass and the breeze cools you, it feels a certain way. I would play until it sounded like Warm Grass and Cool Breeze.
I was only playing for myself, but I was a harsh audience. I remember spending nearly three whole days trying to capture Winds Turning Leaf.
By the end of the second month, I could play things nearly as easily as I saw and felt them: Sun Setting Behind the Clouds, Bird Taking a Drink, Dew in the Bracken.
Somewhere in the third month I stopped looking outside and started looking inside for things to play. I learned to play Riding in the Wagon with Ben, Singing with Father by the Fire, Watching Shandi Dance, Grinding Leaves When it Is Nice Outside, Mother Smiling. …
Needless to say, playing these things hurt, but it was a hurt like tender fingers on lute strings. I bled a bit and hoped that I would callous soon.
The Name of the Wind (2007) by Patrick Rothfuss, p. 141
|Homework by Sigrid Hjertén|
Since he belonged, even at the age of six, to that great clan which cannot keep his feelings separate from that from that, but must let future prospects, with their joys and sorrows, cloud what is actually at hand, since to such people even in earliest childhood any turn in the wheel of sensation has the power to crysalize and transfix the moment uponwhich it's gloom or radiance rests, James Ramsay, sitting on the floor cutting out pictures from the illustrated catalogue of the Army and Navy stores, endowed the picture of a refridgerator as his mother spoke with heavenly bliss. It was fringed with joy.
Virginia Woolf in To the Lighthouse (1927), p. 7