5 & 7 & 5

Serres, Michel (2006) L’art des ponts. Homo pontifex. Paris: Le Pommier.


"Method or hyphen, those are soft bridges;

viaduct or bridge, those are hard unions or methods.

Watch: I am constructing a new footbridge;

moving from matter to the sign and from the abstract

to the concrete, I am bridging the hard and the soft. Whether of one

or the other kind, I find bridges everywhere.

Examples: the method of translation mobilises two grammars

and a bilingual dictionary, it bridges languages;

the method

for producing

living mutation

moves through



it bridges


and soon species;

the method

for transmuting

elements passes

through radioactive


it bridges inert bodies.

Bridging, respectively, languages,

living beings and elements, we bridge, transversely,

the soft empire of signs with the hard realms of physics and biology...

First labour, to build bridges in the hard;

second work, to think of soft bridges. To launch oneself between

the second and the first, the final enterprise. Bridging, in general, becomes

an activity so large that it coincides perhaps with the whole human project, in


our very body bridges flesh and word".



"Thought can never be anything illogical, since, if it were, we should have to think

illogically. It is an impossibility to represent in language anything that 'contradicts logic'

as it is in geometry to represent by its co-ordinates a figure that contradicts the laws

of space, or to give the co-ordinates of a point that does not exist".


Wittgenstein - Tractates Logico-Philosophicus



In the cowslip pips I lie,

Hidden from the buzzing fly,

While green grass beneath me lies,

Pearled with dew like fishes' eyes,

Here I lie, a clock-o'-clay,

Waiting for the time o' day.


While the forest quakes surprise,

And the wild wind sobs and sighs,

My home rocks as like to fall,

On its pillar green and tall;

When the pattering rain drives by

Clock-o'-clay keeps warm and dry.


Day by day and night by night,

All the week I hide from sight;

In the cowslip pips I lie,

In the rain still warm and dry;

Day and night and night and day,

Red, black-spotted clock-o'-clay.


My home shakes in wind and showers,

Pale green pillar topped with flowers,

Bending at the wild wind's breath,

Till I touch the grass beneath;

Here I live, lone clock-o'-clay,

Watching for the time of day. 


John Clare