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The more invisible something is, the more certain it’s been around, and the more obviously it’s everywhere. — Joseph Brodkey since the bright beams cannot cut the cloud in two, the light gathers into itself – Anaximenes, translated by Dan Beachy-Quick La foule les chante un peu distraite En ignorant le nom de l'auteur Sans savoir pour qui battait leur cœur — Charles Trenet * Among my notes on…
La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la La, la, la, la — Georges Moustaki, “La Philosophie” when the swans and geese have sunk under the pink lakes of the South, when this chair is up in final smoke, and I have not yet said it, you and I, we will still be…
Do not all charms fly At the mere touch of cold philosophy? There was an awful rainbow once in heaven: We know her woof, her texture; she is given In the dull catalogue of common things. — John Keats, “Lamia” Paris met us with its insatiable sunlight— and the sun set around 10 pm, adding hours to the day. Reviewing photos, catching up on emails, and (inadvertently) thinking about Morya Davey's…
Please send me your translation - I can't have enough of you in my hands. — Franz Kafka to Milena In this relationship, where the miles between them were travelled more often in words than caresses, the act of unsealing an envelope was equivalent to unbuttoning a blouse, and holding one of her letters was like stroking her hips. — Maïa Hruska, Kafkaesque Or: an inventory of the blur between…
The most interesting part of A. O. Scott’s Better Living Through Criticism is the Afterword. This is not to disparage his critical writing so much as to express my own preference for self-deprecating self-interviews as performed and staged by literary critics. What follows is excerpted from the thing in italics… Q: Just to get us caught up: after years— too many years, maybe—of dishing it out you…
It was right in the middle of our tragedy And she sat at her mirror for the longest of days — Louis Aragon, “Elsa at the Mirror” Marc Chagall. Hommage à Elsa Triolet . 1969-72. LETTER 1: BERLIN / Viktor Shklovsky to Elsa Triolet I love you a little more than yesterday. I wish I could unlearn how to write, so I could learn to write again and only to you. Unlearn how to speak, then learn again, and…
The spirit is most alive when it is lost. — Guy Davenport Sometimes I don’t know why we do it. In these (and those) times, with Prelude 2 by Max Richter and Mari Samuelsen in the margins, I return to the words of others, seeking wine in their metaphors and similes. Writing is wrestling, said Chinua Achebe. The writer sits in a room and wrestles with ideas in the struggle of story. It requires…
The heavy bear who goes with me, A manifold honey to smear his face, Clumsy and lumbering here and there, The central ton of every place, The hungry beating brutish one In love with candy, anger, and sleep, — Delmore Schwartz, “The Heavy Bear Who Goes with Me” On s′est perdus un matin station Quatre-Septembre Éperdus ivres de ce vin qui vous fait les yeux en amande — Benjamin Biolay Jacopo De’…
At that moment I realized that I was still clinging to my old, shabby, unmodern velvet or plush hat - at any rate, it was a sort of artist's hat. I blamed my hat for the frustrating outcome of my adventure, and awoke. — Adorno Los Angeles, end of May 1942 I dreamt I was to be crucified. The crucifixion was to take place at the Bockenheimer Warte, just by the university. I felt no fear throughout…
You have dared call Time your “brother,” take as your ally the worst of torturers. On this point, our differences explode: you walk in step with Time, while I precede or drag after it, never adopting its manners, unable to think of it without experiencing something like a speculative sorrow . - Emil Cioran, Drawn and Quartered (translated by Richard Howard) I don’t know who reads this. I don’t…
