Before I met No I thought that violence meant shouting and hitting and war and blood. Now I know that there can also be violence in silence and that it’s sometimes invisible to the naked eye. There’s violence in the time that conceals wounds, the relentless succession of days, the impossibility of turning back the clock. Violence is what escapes us. It’s silent and hidden. Violence is what remains inexplicable, what stays forever opaque…My mother stands there at the living room door with her arms by her sides. And I think that there’s violence in that too – in her inability to reach out to me, to make the gesture which is impossible and so forever suspended.
Before I met No I thought that violence meant shouting and hitting and war and blood. Now I know that there can also be violence in silence and that it’s sometimes invisible to the naked eye. There’s violence in the time that conceals wounds, the relentless succession of days, the impossibility of turning back the clock. Violence is what escapes us. It’s silent and hidden. Violence is what remains inexplicable, what stays forever opaque…My mother stands there at the living room door with her arms by her sides. And I think that there’s violence in that too – in her inability to reach out to me, to make the gesture which is impossible and so forever suspended.
