“The owl is nothing other than this: a soundless and highly effective bird of prey. If the true task of poetry is revelation, this is what it should reveal, that reality is what it is. That the forest, with its dense spruces and its snow-covered floor, is real. That the falling dusk is real. That the owl taking off from the branch and flying across the field is real. That its soundless wingbeats are real, that the invisible and to us inaudible sound waves that reach its ears are real. That the abrupt change in its flight is real, that the swoop down towards the ground with its claws first is real, that the mouse that the claws dig into is real. That the red of the blood against the grey-white of the mouse’s pelt is real as the wings beat and the owl rises through the darkness and in between the tree trunks, which a moment later it vanishes among.”
Karl Ove Knausgaard, em Winter.
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