Marie Bortolotto 2016

Marie Bortolotto 2016


“In this mortal frame of mine which is made of a hundred bones and nine
orifices there is something, and this something is called a wind-swept spirit
for lack of a better name, for it is much like a thin drapery that is torn and
swept away at the slightest stir of the wind. This something in me took to
writing poetry years ago, merely to amuse itself at first, but finally making
it its lifelong business. It must be admitted, however, that there were times
when it sank into such dejection that it was almost ready to drop its pursuit,
or again times when it was so puffed up with pride that it exulted in vain
victories over the others. Indeed, ever since it began to write poetry, it has
never found peace with itself, always wavering between doubts of one kind
and another. At one time it wanted to gain security by entering the service
of a court, and at another it wished to measure the depth of its ignorance
by trying to be a scholar, but it was prevented from either because of its
unquenchable love of poetry. The fact is, it knows no other art than the art
of writing poetry, and therefore, it hangs on to it more or less blindly.”

― Matsuo Bashō, The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches

Marie Bortolotto 2016