Sleepers A Poem by Nick Trombley m o t i o n l e s s m o t i o n l s e s m o t i o n s l e s m o t i o s n l e s m o t i s o n l e s m o t s i o n l e s m o s t i o n l e s m s o t i o n l e s s m o t i o n l e s s o m t i o n l e s s o m t i n o l e s s o m t n i o l e s s o m n t i o l e s s o m n t o i l e s s o m n o t i l e s s o m n o t l i e s s o m n o l t i e s s o m n o l i t e s Concrete poetry sleepeuphony
Because we have to sleep Two nights later, as he was getting ready to bed down, the boy looked for the star they followed every night. He thought that the horizon was a bit lower than it had been, because he seemed to see stars on the desert itself. "It's the oasis," said the camel driver. "Well, why don't we go there right now?" the boy asked. "Because we have to sleep." Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist sleep
To carve a volume into the void of darkness The nocturnal sound is a reminder of human solitude and mortality, and it makes one conscious of the entire slumbering city. Anyone who has become entranced by the sound of dripping water in the darkness of a ruin can attest to the extraordinary capacity of the ear to carve a volume into the void of darkness. The space traced by the ear in the darkness becomes a cavity sculpted directly in the interior of the mind. Juhani Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses sounddarknesssleepsolitude
Traced in the summer skies Yes, it was the hour when, a long time ago, I was perfectly content. What awaited me back then was always a night of easy, dreamless sleep. And yet something had changed, since it was back to my cell that I went to wait for the next day…as if familiar paths traced in summer skies could lead as easily to prison as to the sleep of the innocent. Albert Camus, The Stranger sleepcrime
A passive beauty of right structure The human maker, working in unself-conscious matter, receives no worship from his creatures, since their will is no part of his material; he can only receive the response of their nature, and he is alone in fault if that response is not forthcoming. If he tortures his material, if the stone looks unhappy when he has wrought it into a pattern alien to its own nature, if his writing is an abuse of language, his music a succession of unmeaning intervals, the helpless discomfort of his material universe is a reproach to him alone; similarly, if he respects and interprets the integrity of his material, the seemliness of the ordered work proclaims his praise, and his only, without will, but in a passive beauty of right structure. Dorothy Sayers, The Mind of the Maker The Web's Grain material