I don’t get ballet,
or more generally, dance.
As a man of words myself, I see bookshops as chapels
and libraries as cathedrals,
yet both maintain the intimate comfort of my boudoir.
You get the picture.
The same applies to the visual arts.
I still have vivid memories of long discussions with my friend
about painting—for her, it ended with impressionism,
while for me, impressionism began the real deal.
And I will not even mention music—one of the loves of my life.
After all, even deaf people enjoy it,
perceiving the sound as vibrations through the body.
‘Hearing is basically a specialised form of touch.’
Then, what’s my problem with dance—ballet specifically, you ask?
Well, to me, it’s nothing but some bizarre physical exercise,
and while I can appreciate the aesthetics of whirling dervishes,
I see them more as moving statues, if anything.
But what do I know? If you think about it, you could say that a poem
is nothing more than oddly arranged words.
hidden pilcrow 