09 April 2014

A Spring in Mallorca

Dedicated to George Sand - with the excerpts from the book "A Winter in Mallorca" by George Sand. 


I, carried off by my proud and headstrong rockinghorse of independence, have known no greater pleasure in the world than that of crossing seas and mountains, lakes and valleys. 








When there is nothing but scenic beauty to describe, words are inadequate and insufficient and I would not dare to attempt it. It requires an artist's pencil and an engraver's tool to reveal the splendours of nature to lovers of travel. 







I travel for the sake of travelling. I know that a journey is a pleasure in itself; but in the end, what forces you to make this expensive, tiring, sometimes dangerous journey, always filled with endless disappointments? THE NEED TO TRAVEL. (...) It is because we are never really happy anywhere, these days, and of all the faces of our ideal, travelling is one of most pleasing and the most deceptive. (...) All of us, when we have a bit of time and money, go travelling or, above all, escape, because it is not so much a question of travelling as of getting away, you understand? Which one of us does not have some problem to avoid or some responsibility to shake off? No-one. 









It is true however, and I know this as well as anyone, that what one sees is seldom equal to what one dreams. (...) I have almost always found nature infinitely more beautiful than I expected, and I don't remember ever having found it disagreeable unless it was at a time when I was feeling that way myself.























God is good to everyone. But as you are an artist, it is good that you have known one of the emotions, without which an artist cannot understand his work. (...) You artists don't usually consider the reason behind the works of man, only the beauty and orginality of their execution. Therefore your intellect often loves the outward execution of an idea that your heart would reject if it was conscious of it. This is why your own work often lacks the true colours of life, especially when you force yourself to copy lifelessly from the work of the dead, which you don't want to understand, instead of expressing the feelings that course through the veins of living men.







































We feel in our hearts, in our mind and on our guts that the lives of others are connected with our own, that we cannot survive without loving and being loved, understanding and being understood, helping and being helped. (...) I am certain that this need is at the bottom of every heart and that those of us who fight it and try to suffocate it with fallacies, experience a strange and bitter pain, for which they cannot find a name. 



























































And the moral of this story, childish perhaps but sincere, is that man is not made to live with the trees, with the stones and the clear sky, and the blue sea, with the flowers and the mountains, but with men, his fellow men. (...) It is a serious mistake, and experience of life teaches us that, where one cannot live in peace with one's fellow men, there is no admiration of poetry nor delight in art capable of filling the abyss that opens at the depth of the soul.







I have always dreamed of living in a desert, and all honest dreamers will confess that they have had the same fantasy. But believe me, my brothers, we have a heart too loving to pass each other by; and the thing we are left to do, is to support each other mutually; for we are like the children of the same breast, who tease and quarrel, and even fight and at the same time, cannot leave each other.

George Sand "A Winter in Mallorca"

Mallorca, April 2012