Read Near to the Wild Heart for Free Online

continuity. Imagination captured and possessed the future of the present, while the body remained at the beginning of the road, living in another rhythm, blind to the experience of the spirit... Through these perceptions — by means of them, Joana made something exist — she connected with a happiness that was self-sufficient.
    There were lots of pleasant sensations. To climb a mountain, to linger on the summit and, without looking round, to feel the presence of that conquered territory she had left behind, her uncle's farm way off in the distance. The wind catching her clothes, her hair. Her arms free, her heart closing and opening savagely, but her face bright and serene beneath the sun. And knowing, above all, that the earth beneath her feet was so deep and secret that there was no need to fear the invasion of understanding dissolving its mystery. This sensation had the hallmark of glory.
    Certain moments of music. Music belonged to the same category as thought, both vibrated in the same movement and species. It possessed the same quality of a thought so intimate that upon hearing that music, the thought itself was revealed. A thought so intimate that upon hearing someone repeat the subtle nuances of those sounds, Joana found herself surprised, as if she had been invaded and dispersed. She no longer even heard the harmony once it was diffused — for then it was no longer hers. Or even when she listened to it a number of times, which destroyed the analogy: for her thought never repeated itself, while music could be played over and over again and sound exactly as before — thought was only equal to music creating itself. Joana did not identify herself closely with all the sounds. Only with those that were pure, and what she loved here was neither tragic nor comic.
    There was also much to see. Certain moments of seeing were as valid as those 'flowers on a grave'. What one saw passed into existence. Joana, however, was not expecting some vision in a miracle announced by the Angel Gabriel. She was as astonished at what she had already perceived, suddenly seeing something for the first time, suddenly realizing that that something was constantly alive. Like a barking dog outlined against the sky. That was something apart that required no further explanation... An open door swinging to and fro, creaking in the evening silence... And suddenly, yes, there was the real thing. An old portrait of someone whom you don't know and are never likely to recognize because the portrait is old or because the person in the portrait has turned to ashes — this little distraction brought a moment of welcome respite. Also a mast without a flag, erect and mute, fixed into position on a summer's day — both the face and body blind. In order to have a vision, the thing did not have to be sad or happy or to manifest itself. It was enough to exist, preferably still and silent, in order to feel its mark. Dear God, the mark of existence... But this was not something to be pursued, since all that existed, perforce existed... The vision, in fact, consisted in surprising the symbol of things in the things themselves.
    She found these discoveries confusing. But this also lent a certain grace. How to clarify herself, for example, what long, sharp lines did the mark clearly have? They were sharp and thin. At a given moment they were nothing but lines, ending up exactly as they had started. Interrupted, constantly interrupted not because they were likely to come to an end, but because no one could terminate them. The circles were more perfect, less tragic, and did not move her sufficiently. A circle was the work of man, completed before death, and God Himself couldn't improve on that finish. While straight, thin, free lines-were like thoughts.
    There were other things that confused her. She remembered Joana as a little girl looking out to sea: the tranquillity that came from the eyes of an ox, the tranquillity that came from that sprawling expanse of sea,