tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66118064256801834512024-03-14T05:35:19.127-07:00Blind Pony Bookshphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comBlogger194125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-87012001034430757472017-12-21T08:10:00.000-08:002017-12-21T08:13:27.888-08:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF8ld4DwEoJc6nOV1gb3wyosC95cOIwwYIl27pNbPcYhN_UyuIfAPzjGGF10AXHPz3K032mJGH7fFD_pddfcg0PQTmUaMt3AHjLmwE2kZOXUmrIvjck6zWVNkD-yi_wgVEzwrxHeZnMAQ/s1600/12715993_1152000638153095_6243745722971681942_o.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="1428" data-original-width="1428" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF8ld4DwEoJc6nOV1gb3wyosC95cOIwwYIl27pNbPcYhN_UyuIfAPzjGGF10AXHPz3K032mJGH7fFD_pddfcg0PQTmUaMt3AHjLmwE2kZOXUmrIvjck6zWVNkD-yi_wgVEzwrxHeZnMAQ/s320/12715993_1152000638153095_6243745722971681942_o.jpg" width="320" /></a>
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<a href="http://herbertpfostl.com/"><span style="color: #cccccc;">herbertpfostl.com</span></a><br />
<br />hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-77886182801479436672017-03-03T08:13:00.000-08:002017-03-03T08:13:11.235-08:00now nearly gone.
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hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-11187804746876875802016-12-01T07:36:00.001-08:002016-12-01T07:42:25.638-08:00Incantation in repetition.<br />
Proud to see my Schrift-Landschaften published by <br />the very fine Epidote Press.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8W4D9jKlhWefltWYHXr83tH6AWWQyQEAVk041lUiWXFe8nekpocJ4A1FxI8NebVnr7DKWFRnUVPZCao_-8_H_WSbxbDWlBfrHdPgOAP0HY-OP7nAgMefPyBCGRc7rdcG43hkdtnRcjVY/s1600/tumblr_ocl8b6H1E71s9fis0o2_500.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8W4D9jKlhWefltWYHXr83tH6AWWQyQEAVk041lUiWXFe8nekpocJ4A1FxI8NebVnr7DKWFRnUVPZCao_-8_H_WSbxbDWlBfrHdPgOAP0HY-OP7nAgMefPyBCGRc7rdcG43hkdtnRcjVY/s320/tumblr_ocl8b6H1E71s9fis0o2_500.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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Pictured here as displayed by the always wonderful NIEMAND.<br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-size: x-small;">http://www.epidotepress.com/schrift-landschaften/</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-size: x-small;">http://prehistory-for-niemand.tumblr.com/post/149571133065/httpwwwepidotepresscom-epidote-press-is-an</span><br />
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<br />hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-4244768964676349962015-07-15T10:48:00.000-07:002015-07-15T17:56:02.152-07:00grace of certain things.<br />
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<span style="background-color: black; color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But certainly, he came more and more to be unable to care for, or think of soul but as in an actual body, or of any world but that wherein are water and trees, and where men and women look, so or so, and press actual hands. It was the trick even his pity learned, fastening those who suffered in anywise to his affections by a kind of sensible attachments. He would think of Julian, fallen into incurable sickness, as spoiled in the sweet blossom of his skin like pale amber, and his honey-like hair; of Cecil, early dead, as cut off from the lilies, from golden summer days, from women’s voices; and then what comforted him a little was the thought of the turning of the child’s flesh to violets in the turf above him. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">- <i>The Child in the House </i>In: <i>Selected Writings of Walter Pater</i>, Ed. Harold Bloom, Columbia University Press 1974</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">- Stefan Lochner (1410-1451), <i>Madonna mit dem Veilchen, </i>Detail.</span></div>
hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-44603952918860358042015-03-15T21:39:00.000-07:002015-07-15T11:05:01.653-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #999999; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Inferences I. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #999999;">T</span><span style="color: #999999;">ext fragment: </span><span style="color: #999999;">Walter Benjamin.</span></span>hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-86110997903648202432014-10-09T19:16:00.001-07:002015-07-15T11:05:21.973-07:00eternally established.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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...the principle that children tell little more than animals,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">for what comes to them they accept as eternally established.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">- </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Edmund Wilson, <i>The Wound and the Bow</i> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: xx-small;">- Robert Bresson, <i>Au Hasard Balthazar</i></span><br />
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hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-83948672129127804932014-09-15T15:10:00.000-07:002015-07-15T11:19:14.568-07:00stones and flowers.<br />
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It was so utterly wonderful to find I could go so heartily & headily mad; for you know I had been priding myself on my peculiar sanity! And it was more wonderful yet to find the madness made up into things so dreadful, out of things so trivial. One of the most provoking and disagreeable spectres was developed out of the firelight on my mahogany bedpost - and my fate, for all futurity, seemed continually to turn on the humor of dark personages who were materially nothing but stains of damp on the ceiling. But the sorrowfullest part of the matter was, and is, that while my illness at Matlock encouraged me by all its dreams in after work, this one has done nothing but humiliate and terrify me; and leaves me nearly unable to speak any more except of the natures of stones and flowers.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">- John Ruskin, from a letter to Thomas Carlyle, 23 June 1878</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">- Pressed flower from Rosa Luxemburg's Breslau Penitentiary Herbarium. In: Rosa's Letters. Mousse Publishing, 2011</span></div>
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hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-46474537751990849552014-09-04T19:24:00.001-07:002014-09-08T16:14:34.499-07:00among the facts of the world.<br />
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In Walser, an absolute sense of decency about language does not let agony express itself. The reality is made manifest, the<i> fact </i>of agony, not agony. It is necessary to speak of things, not of words. Marvelously, everything that is utterable is said when one simply states the case.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">- Massimo Cacciari, <i>Songs of the Departed </i>in <i>POSTHUMOUS PEOPLE. Vienna at the Turning Point</i>. <i>Stanford University Press, 1996</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>- Walser in Herisau, 1949 </i>image taken from <i><a href="http://50watts.com/Traces-of-Robert-Walser-2" style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: #cccccc;">50 Watts</span></a></i></span></div>
hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-35219100649311060732014-03-26T09:33:00.000-07:002014-03-26T09:33:28.776-07:00light issued.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-18448323011271676382014-02-22T17:36:00.001-08:002014-02-22T18:28:31.518-08:00sometimes a balm.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">I</span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">n 1883, an earthquake that lasted ninety seconds shook the south of Italy. In that earthquake, he lost his parents and his sister; he himself was buried by rubble. Two or three hours later, he was rescued. To ward off total despair, he resolved to think about the Universe - a general procedure among the unfortunate, and sometimes a balm.</span></span></span></div>
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</div>hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-38063979512668283302013-05-03T17:31:00.001-07:002013-05-03T17:31:35.957-07:00kleist - arch.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On the evening before that most important day of my life, in Würzburg, I went for a walk. When the sun went down, it seemed as though my happiness were sinking with it. I was horrified to think that I might be forced to part with </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>everything</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, everything of importance to me. I was walking back to the city, lost in my own thoughts, through an arched gateway. Why, I asked myself, does this arch not collapse, since after all it has </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>no support</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">? It remains standing, I answered, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>because all the stones want to fall down at the same time </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">- and from this thought I derived an indescribable heartening consolation, which stayed with me right up to the decisive moment: I too would not collapse, even if all my support were removed.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Heinrich von Kleist, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Letter to Wilhelmine von Zenge, November 16, 18, 1800</i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Image: <i>Ravenna, Kirche San Vitale. Geweiht 547, byzantinisch. Kapitell im Chor.</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span>hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-75957922827635335302013-04-13T14:05:00.001-07:002013-05-01T10:17:30.823-07:00tell them I've had a wonderful life.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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At the age of ten he constructed a working model of a sewing machine out of bits of wood and wire.<br />
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It was not true that he couldn't hear, simply that he wouldn't listen.<br />
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He took<i> The Brothers Karamazov</i> to the front.<br />
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Continued to wear his uniform for many years after the war.<br />
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His sense of humor was "heavy".<br />
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<i>And this is how it is: if only you do not try to utter what is unutterable then <u>nothing</u> gets lost. But the unutterable will be - unutterably - <u>contained</u> in what has been uttered!</i><br />
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<i>I am not a religious man but I cannot help seeing every problem from a religious point of view.</i><br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i>What we say will be easy, but to know why we say it will be very difficult.</i></span></i><br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i>The solution of the problem of life is to be seen in the disappearance of the problem.</i></span></i><br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i>The inexpressible (that which seems mysterious to me, geheimnisvoll, and that I am not capable of expressing) provides the ground upon which all that I am able to express acquires meaning.</i></span></i><br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i>What is good is also divine. Queer as it sounds, that sums up my ethics.</i></span></i><br />
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A whole generation of disciples was able to take Wittgenstein for a positivist because he has something of enormous importance in common with the positivists: he draws the line between what we can speak about and what we must be silent about just as they do. The difference is only that they have nothing to be silent about. Positivism holds - and this is its essence - that what we can speak about is all that matters in life. <u>Whereas Wittgenstein passionately believes that all that really matters in human life is precisely what, in his view, we must be silent about</u><i>. </i>(Paul Engelmann)</div>
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<i>I ought to have done something positive with my life, to have become a star in the sky.</i><br />
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His last words were: <i>"Tell them I've had a wonderful life."</i><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">- Text and images from:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Ludwig Wittgenstein The Duty of Genius</i> by Ray Monk </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Letters from Ludwig Wittgenstein with a Memoir </i>by Paul Engelmann</span><br />
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<br />hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-8873756376368088062013-03-09T12:32:00.003-08:002013-05-01T10:17:41.276-07:00to disinvent.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I should like to erect here a modest stele to the memory of Sir Arthur Helps (1813-1875), a secretary and confidant of Queen Victoria. It was probably he who invented the marvelously useful verb <i>to disinvent</i>. The only illustration of this word in the <i>Oxford English Dictionary</i> (Vol. III) is a quotation from Helps dated 1868: "I would disinvent telegraphic communication." The word is not listed in Vol. I of the Supplement (1972), but a recent use will be found s.v. <i>fantasy</i> in the same volume. If I were younger, I would found the <i>Coverers' and </i><i>Disinventors' Club</i>.</div>
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Erwin Chargaff, HERACLITEAN FIRE. Sketches from a Life before Nature.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Image from the German edition: Das Feuer des Heraklit (KLETT-COTTA, Vierte Auflage, 1988)</span></div>
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hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-18417346547944856942013-02-14T07:22:00.000-08:002013-05-01T10:17:50.924-07:00sternenkind<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A MILLION NIGHTINGALES ARE SINGING</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The Stars. Blue. Expanse.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Flaming song of stars!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A million nightingales are singing.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Springtide light is flashing.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Myriads of eyelashes are flaring up in quivers.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The green happiness of spring-night banquets</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Commences its own rutting shine.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Balmy showers take their magic turn:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Millions of nightingales are singing.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Do I recognize a friendly ghost?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I will earnestly contend for it.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The sign wants to be carved into perceiving:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Who knows when my dream-life will be blazing?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ghosts resemble our gentle animals,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">They are fast to sense the nature of attraction.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">They heave and hover and weave about</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And keep us very gingerly under their spell.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I do not want to lose this light-swarming silence.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">An old theurgy must stir here soon from gentleness.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Millions of nightingales are singing.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Kindred voices are urging us through the night.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It seems a moon is smoldering arcanely.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But the night she is too warm, so full of breathing pleasure!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Myriads of sparks fly as if in rut to seek each other.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">They whirr back and forth and yet still as a part of spring.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The ghost of spring, the ghost of spring is prowling in the wood-lot!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The broad-leaved forest can wander and anticipate itself,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It sways and waltzes to all the old ways of transformation;</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The night is laughing: Big Dipper's daring, Libra is keeping watch.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Here are flashing myriads of dance-besotted queries -</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Millions of nightingales are singing.</span><br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">Millionen Nachtigallen Schlagen</span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">Translated from Theodor D<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">äubler's DAS STERNENKIND.</span></span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>For my Kirston, on this day, and for bringing his book to me.</i></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">An edition of </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">D<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">äubler's</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> poems in letterpress available from us soon.</span></span> </span><br />
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hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-23034738754901378402013-01-09T05:58:00.000-08:002013-05-01T10:17:59.967-07:00every log that falls.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The successive thump of logs on the paving of the courtyards. They were unloaded from carts, house by house, as the cold weather loomed. The wood fell on the ground and announced winter. Baudelaire stayed awake. There was no need of anything else but that sound - dull, repetitive. The sun already knows that soon it will be imprisoned "in its polar inferno." It is as if auscultating labored breathing: "Trembling. I listen to every log that falls."</div>
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Anatole France, with the amiable skepticism that sometimes prevented him from understanding, recounted that one day a sailor showed Baudelaire an African fetish, "a monstrous little head carved out of a piece of wood by a poor negro." It's really ugly, said the sailor. And he threw it away in scorn. "Watch out!" said Baudelaire anxiously. "It might be the one true god!" It was his firmest declaration of faith.</div>
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The two last fragments from LA FOLIE BAUDELAIRE </div>
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by Roberto Calasso</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(Image: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">F</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">élix Nadar - Charles Baudelaire au Fauteuil, 1855 - Paris, Mus</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">ée d'Orsay)</span></span></span></div>
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hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-59808446248150476912012-06-04T15:01:00.001-07:002012-06-06T05:35:20.345-07:00last things.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-83338559403113607012011-12-27T12:05:00.000-08:002011-12-27T12:43:46.454-08:00the forsaken toys of others.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJvVdMiSsYAtvel_pk4cryS5zCgHsxv2CYp501kVFC7R0f_coYynTjzP09TlF9HmYPA_wdPVs_n7Xn9ZyDlSvuo1ZxIxYhxkwEoYeefqUHnkvh1aJeKwitl-SifTzSwqN0-f355h7jYfk/s1600/khnopff1a-thumb.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJvVdMiSsYAtvel_pk4cryS5zCgHsxv2CYp501kVFC7R0f_coYynTjzP09TlF9HmYPA_wdPVs_n7Xn9ZyDlSvuo1ZxIxYhxkwEoYeefqUHnkvh1aJeKwitl-SifTzSwqN0-f355h7jYfk/s400/khnopff1a-thumb.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690905880057713298" /></a><br /><br />Your letter has drawn me from the solitude in which I had shut myself up for nearly nine months, and from which I found it hard to stir. You will not guess what I have been about. I will tell you for such things do not happen every day. I have been making a list of from two to three hundred radical words of the Russian language, and have had them translated into as many languages and jargons as I could find. Their number exceeds already the second hundred. Every day I took one of these words and wrote it out in all the languages which I could collect. This has taught me that Celtic is like the Ostiakian: that what means sky in one language means cloud, fog, vault, in others; that the word God in certain dialects means Good, the Highest, in others, sun or fire...I asked Professor Pallas to come to me, and after making an honest confession of my sin, we agreed to publish these collections, and thus make them useful to those who like to occupy themselves with the forsaken toys of others.<br /><br />- Letter from Catherine the Great, dated 9 May 1785, from <span style="font-style:italic;">Curious Versions of Modernity</span>, D.l. Martin, MIT Press 2011hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-5285028884431085722011-11-10T21:54:00.000-08:002019-05-26T10:22:04.533-07:00Marcel Schwob: The Passive Adventurer.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTJBK9Ydr-yfE4GwpNcgVI44rkAMpITriDufsBIiKEMU0KZPqc8Qn0XoMu7DPark0vXFY9H7cDfnq4XjmUfKAOs-2qjZYr7ILLYwkt3TaYBfirJlCM6XaWUfa_kgGGkaizW0FESkPoFcg/s1600/Marcel+Schwob_good.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673631775282666178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTJBK9Ydr-yfE4GwpNcgVI44rkAMpITriDufsBIiKEMU0KZPqc8Qn0XoMu7DPark0vXFY9H7cDfnq4XjmUfKAOs-2qjZYr7ILLYwkt3TaYBfirJlCM6XaWUfa_kgGGkaizW0FESkPoFcg/s400/Marcel+Schwob_good.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; height: 400px; width: 258px;" /></a><br />
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mayer André Marcel Schwob was born into a family of rabbis and doctors. The mother, Mathilde, was a Cahun, descendant of Caym de Sainte-Menehould, who had followed Joinville across the sea and — it is said — had, in the presence of the holy Jean de Acri, nursed and healed him from cholera. Through his mother's grandfather Anselm, Rabbi of the Jewish community Hochfelden, Schwob had inherited the wide brow, sensual mouth, and a half-sad smile in his eyes. Marcel had the pride of his clan and frequently preferred not to consort with some people of his race. Names, words, and legends were rushing through his brain. At three years of age he spoke German and English. There was a great silence in the house at Rue de I Eglise in Chaville. The mother tiptoed up the stairs, and even the Prussians, as they were stealing wine from the cellar, behaved very tenderly towards the all too precocious child, who was suffering from brain fever. During his sickness, while he was lying in bed with closed shutters, Marcel continued to set out on long journeys. He was somewhat rachitic and dreamed of swimming across the English Channel. Upon his arrival, there was Jules Verne, who embraced him. Another friend, with whom he had conversations as soon as he had scared off the German tutor, was Edgar Allan Poe. He put his little table in order, prepared his room for the encounter. He immersed himself in conversations with Edgar and Jules and, consequently, he despised his peers and their childlike stammering. His concentration was so great, that during these soliloquies he did not notice the hours that passed, nor the years. All of a sudden he was fifteen years old and devoured the <span style="font-style: italic;">Grammaire Comparee </span>of Auguste Brachet. His uncle, Léon Cahun, author of the <span style="font-style: italic;">Vie Juive</span>, became his protector and teacher. Who, incidentally, could be Schwob's teacher if not a Cahun. Conservator at the Bibliothèque Mazarine, he knew the histories of adventurers, of sailors and soldiers, he had traveled through Asia Minor, along the Euphrates. He knew very much, even in Uygur.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">At the Lycée, Marcel met Georges Guieysse, a strange and melancholic classmate. They quickly became inseparable and worked together. Each of Marcel’s pages goes through Georges’ hands, and like a renaissance humanist Marcel writes him letters in Greek, with greetings in Arabic, or just a simple <span style="font-style: italic;">shake hands</span>. Marcel confides in him that he is often incredibly tired, thoughts slip away, memory is gone. Why not go as kitchen boys to Australia or Canada? Regrettably, George had seemed absent for some time. When they saw each other, he left it to Marcel to invent itineraries, which they would have embarked upon eventually. He sat huddled in a corner and watched the scholar, prey to the spleen. On 7 May 1889 Georges Guieysse shot a bullet into his heart. He was twenty years old.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">From then on Marcel resided in the sober and often empty halls and archives of the Bibliothèque Mazarine, where he unearthed documents about Villon and the Coquillards. He became a writer. One evening in autumn, when the rain is already cold, he encounters a little working girl of childlike intellect, Louise, and falls in love. She is thin, haggard from consumption, a poor little girl with chestnut colored hair and vague, mocking eyes, who writes letters to him in colored pencils. Marcel is delighted by the little silly things that Louise always tells him. For example: My Loulou, my hair has fallen out, cover your nails, which grow, and the little flakes of your skin, which are falling. I have a tummy ache. I have sown back the nose of my doll, now it is shorter and also thicker, and I forgot to leave holes for the nostrils. I will continue my silhouettes later, but I must have lost my scissors. Don’t forget to bring me another pair when you come, that you may help me perhaps. Pichciquinki. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The scholar had become addicted to playing. His pockets were filled with cotton, nails, and colorfully hemmed fabric. He spoke in falsetto with the publishers of magazines, whom he despised, and he smiled a lot. Meanwhile Marcel worriedly took care of the girl, for her condition was serious. The doctors were dismayed by Louise's surroundings, the little room without a breath of air, and only one small window that was always closed. Louise smoked one cigarette after another, cigars, Marcel’s pipe, and always drank coffee. Soon Louise was dead. After the burial the unhappy writer returns to the room, bedding all the dolls into a trunk, he takes them home. His friends watch over him, for as soon as Marcel is alone he becomes afraid of the dead one dying again. He sees her ghost laugh in the corners of the house. His tearful eyes keep suggesting new appearances. Marcel locks the scissors and the pocket knife into a little box and throws the nails and cotton scraps away. He becomes superstitious and longs for sleep. But sleep brings the echo of arrant laughter to him. Did the girl grow up in death, have the tomfooleries gone? The next morning, in the mirror, he finds that his hair has fallen out overnight, that his forehead has become wider still.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">He becomes accustomed to morphine. These are moments of magnificent solitude. When the friends have left, he bolts the doors and windows, no sound gets through. They are the everlasting hours, eternity piled in layers in his room. Afterwards he became the great sheik of knowledge and of the grimoires, as Doctor J.C. Madrus called him, dedicating the fifteenth volume of his translation of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Book of the </span><span style="font-style: italic;">Thousand Nights and One Night</span> to him. Madrus has a honey-sweet voice and his laughter makes Schwob lose his patience now and then. He was dressed in long coats with patched seams and dangling buttons, but the inside pockets were filled with gold. In the remarkable stories that Madrus was telling, tales of money kept recurring. Schwob soon preferred to restrain this friendship. He thought of writing <span style="font-style: italic;">Vies Imaginaires</span>, of men that lived like dogs and holy women fooled by cunning monks, and those who curse themselves, yearning to fall lower still. This was the society that Schwob now mingled with. He noticed that he smiled when he read his lines: “Don’t embrace the dead, for they suffocate the living…the dead bring pestilence.” Schwob was already sick and knew that he would never get well again.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">In a pavilion at the 1900 Exposition Universelle in Paris, Marcel saw a Chinaman named Ting, and he employed him. He resolved to set out for the places of Robert Louis Stevenson, “55 percent artist, 45 percent adventurer,” with whom he had corresponded. Schwob and Ting set sail on board the <span style="font-style: italic;">Ville de la Ciotat</span> on course for the Australian sea. When he heard of Schwob's departure, Jules Renard, one of his acquaintances, noted: “He will live his stories before he dies.’ Greasy functionaries strolled upon the ship, colonial civil servants who kept entering into conversations, and a not very tidy family with four thickset daughters with heavy red braids and an albino son, who looked like a plump farm-girl, dressed like a man. The journey soon seemed much too long. In Colombo he beheld, fatigued, the Babel of religions. He watched caravans of men praying in a cave and saw the feast of the Tamils. Increasingly more tired, he was breathing laboriously, the warm wind covering him with dust, gnats tacked to his skin. The landscape often appeared ominous to him, Australia’s long beaches white as death, with shrubs that swayed like scalped hair. They call him <span style="font-style: italic;">tulapala</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">talk-man </span>in Samoa, coercing him to tell them tales deep into the night. He shakes the hand of king Mataafa, who resembles Bismarck. Schwob did not see Stevenson’s grave, on top of Mount Vaea, between the flowers. He found not what he was seeking. A certain captain Crawshaw showed him postcards from Stevenson. In one of them he advises secrecy and digression, asking him to catch Wurmbrandt in Toga, and to bring him. Wurmbrandt was an Australian adventurer who appealed to Stevenson. This pilgrimage to the shadows of enchantment had come to nothing. What remained was a catalog of aimless wanderings. He had met whiny swindlers, who dragged themselves about, suggesting business, wrecks of charlatans, and wormy duplicates of the rogues and criminals who he had always been so familiar with. Thus offended by the crowd, he yearned for his room in Paris.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">He locked himself up in the house to breathe in his return. <span style="font-style: italic;">Océanide</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Vaililoa</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Captain Crabbe</span> were the titles of the books he would never write. And never did he want to leave again. He felt like a “vivisected dog.” Why don’t the dead return, to converse for half an hour with the invalids? His face changed color a little, became a golden mask. The eyes remained imperiously open. Nobody succeeded in closing them. The room reeked of mourning.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Translated by Herbert Pföstl from Isabel Matthes’ German version of Fleur Jaeggy’s essay - published in <span style="font-style: italic;">DER PFAHL I</span>, Matthes & Seitz Verlag, 1987</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Dedicated to my Kirston.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">hp</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Note:</span></span><br />
<span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: black;">Please see Minna Zallman Proctor's wonderful new translation of Jaeggy's Schwob essay in <i>These Possible Lives</i></span><span style="background-color: black;">,<i> </i></span><span style="background-color: black;">published by New Directions. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">https://www.ndbooks.com/book/these-possible-lives/</span></span><br />
<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: black; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />hp, April 2018</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-35258406958902479162011-10-21T10:30:00.000-07:002011-11-29T05:34:27.797-08:00hermes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYDHBSLhnGnUdhJhmU_E78B9QeWzeSWl6FAe0-C7xO29a19M1_BYd78LWcFuv_7tqej0yed6qGgY54wrQkxLM_ZRGKr3-d2fcV52ZLdXkYtxKfR4m6MDQK4u5YigzWN9jwAkXZrMyPquM/s1600/veil.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 334px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYDHBSLhnGnUdhJhmU_E78B9QeWzeSWl6FAe0-C7xO29a19M1_BYd78LWcFuv_7tqej0yed6qGgY54wrQkxLM_ZRGKr3-d2fcV52ZLdXkYtxKfR4m6MDQK4u5YigzWN9jwAkXZrMyPquM/s400/veil.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5665999998025654706" /></a><br /><br />...der Heilige gibt den halben Mantel, die Gottheit den ganzen Schleier.<br /><br />...the holy man gives half of his coat, divinity the whole veil.<br /><br /><br /> - Franz Hessel, <span style="font-style:italic;">Ermunterung zum Genuss.</span><br /> - Southern Netherlands, Reliquary of the Virgin's Veil, early 15th century, detail<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">thank you, woolgathersome, for bringing this image to me. <br />hp</span>hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-64276460687500874592011-10-15T13:41:00.000-07:002011-10-15T13:55:47.508-07:00a vagabond melancholy.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrVjYk3UqIVX2ITwala_wBiLFuUtoBPHT6_eYNABLUUJ7rJ_ldeTL5I5mH2w0qZGPZDQGN4DtmbZDLoIgxSPn-u993LmSwE74i4E_nAT2qS269G7i_xrtJ21wn5gLEUkCsfJfdqvMY-dA/s1600/elisabethbp.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 257px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrVjYk3UqIVX2ITwala_wBiLFuUtoBPHT6_eYNABLUUJ7rJ_ldeTL5I5mH2w0qZGPZDQGN4DtmbZDLoIgxSPn-u993LmSwE74i4E_nAT2qS269G7i_xrtJ21wn5gLEUkCsfJfdqvMY-dA/s400/elisabethbp.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663822439735047714" /></a><br /><br />There on the pier, stabbed by an ice pick, the Empress Elizabeth, symbol of the oldest European monarchy, which must die at the villainous hand. The contemptible Lucheni raved about making noise and killing someone in the public eye. But it was really the enduring vagabond melancholy of Elizabeth Wittelsbach that, in the mysterious dialogue of souls, summoned the madman to Geneva from Piedmont and anointed him as her assassin. For that matter, even the Italian government was a Lucheni. (Perhaps in its death wish, Vienna itself summoned him.)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">- Guido Ceronetti, The Silence of the Body</span>hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-9189158260787511282011-10-11T22:52:00.000-07:002011-10-12T12:33:41.539-07:00such moments in gestures.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGUnUqxol6N3LxkHGqcmkC5fBb53Jjkg1CE7l4ZG-VS-bRb_90PzvX9vDUL9dD87J9l8KPXvP2TylaXwc2pxzsuuw3_F_GqC9hXBQZ3W5LGvPdW2EvSS0dAeozu4WC4QX60YcDljuHiXo/s1600/remedypostcard4.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGUnUqxol6N3LxkHGqcmkC5fBb53Jjkg1CE7l4ZG-VS-bRb_90PzvX9vDUL9dD87J9l8KPXvP2TylaXwc2pxzsuuw3_F_GqC9hXBQZ3W5LGvPdW2EvSS0dAeozu4WC4QX60YcDljuHiXo/s400/remedypostcard4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662501054856798098" /></a><br /><br /><br />I have read now quickly, now slowly through the whole of your wonderful book.<br /> <br />What at first would appear to be an Ars Morendi<br />Suddenly shifts into alternative contemplations<br />On history, literature, religion:<br />All products of the Self.<br /> <br />The resonance is of one who, because of age,<br />Contemplates his own mortality<br />And tries to persuade himself<br />That though the end is the end<br />Life is not pointless.<br /> <br />The art of book-making shines on every page<br />Reflecting the author’s own claim to immortality<br />With rare choices and artful placement<br />On beautiful paper softly radiating a luminous sepia.<br /><br /><br />- Glenn Watkins on <span style="font-style:italic;">To Die No More</span><br /><br /><br />Glenn Watkins is the coeditor of the complete works of Gesualdo and author of Gesualdo: The Man and His Music (1973) and The Gesualdo Hex: Music, Myth and Memory (2010). He is also the author of Soundings: Music in the 20th Century (1988); Pyramids at the Louvre (1994); and Proof Through the Night: Music and the Great War (2003).hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-84152991519985776862011-04-25T20:29:00.000-07:002011-07-23T09:14:30.245-07:00too light to sink, too faint to float.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXE111mSYIKgowN_wGbMBwu4MStcVjDZWJPdICqXlodpDJkS-PuIrgmWTZbdIc2v-49Uw-IUdU5KuEs4jE_jyRRtdXn7XkBYVC8MNkC0FB8NzMC7evymq6xQT1095rWIKi-QneM-wxSRI/s1600/rose.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 269px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXE111mSYIKgowN_wGbMBwu4MStcVjDZWJPdICqXlodpDJkS-PuIrgmWTZbdIc2v-49Uw-IUdU5KuEs4jE_jyRRtdXn7XkBYVC8MNkC0FB8NzMC7evymq6xQT1095rWIKi-QneM-wxSRI/s400/rose.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599729516683112034" /></a><br /><br />If one of those little flakes of micasand, hurried in tremulous spangling along the bottom of the ancient river, too light to sink, too faint to float, almost too small for sight, could have had a mind given to it as it was at last borne down with its kindred dust into the abysses of the stream, and laid, (would it not have thought?) for a hopeless eternity, in the dark ooze, the most despised, forgotten, and feeble of all earth's atoms; incapable of any use or change; not fit, down there in the diluvial darkness, so much as to help an earth-wasp to build its nest, or feed the first fibre of a lichen; <br />— what would it have thought, had it been told that one day, knitted into a strength as of imperishable iron, rustless by the air, infusible by the flame, out of the substance of it, with its fellows, the axe of God should hew that Alpine tower; that against it—poor, helpless, mica flake! — the wild north winds should rage in vain; beneath it— low-fallen mica flake —the snowy hills should lie bowed like flocks of sheep, and the kingdoms of the earth fade away in unregarded blue; and around it—weak, wave-drifted mica flake! — the great war of the firmament should burst in thunder, and yet stir it not; and the fiery arrows and angry meteors of the night fall blunted back from it into the air; and all the stars in the clear heaven should light, one by one as they rose, new cressets upon the points of snow that fringed its abiding place on the imperishable spire?<br /><br /><br />John Ruskin, <span style="font-style:italic;">Modern painters, Volume 4 </span><br />/<span style="font-style:italic;">Portrait of Miss Rose La Touche, 1874.</span><br /><br />dedicated to kirston of woolgathersome.hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-10545171138719853552010-10-30T07:38:00.000-07:002010-11-04T14:10:07.601-07:00dearer than one’s own decay, in a world so nearly blind.<span style="TEXT-DECORATION: underline">
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<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">“He became frightened of flowers because they grew so slowly that he couldn’t tell what they planned to do.”</span>
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<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">These wine-leaf-brown prose fragments need no page numbering, these chance discoveries connect one's own feelings to those of kindred spirits and now fill the room, a place of chamotte-golden daylight, they vibrate and swing, are highly vivacious attractors of thought, grains of salt to garland the sting of death, nourishing light set against the dark premonition of a final end to the godless Western world and its consuming despair. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">They can be found in a sensuous treasure chest of similar dimensions, weight, and texture as a smallish cigar-case, one that might hold five Havanas. A deliberate piece of art, a vignette of death, sways in relief at the cover’s middle: the stylized figure of a doomed little ship on calm seas, emblem and symbol of the human soul equipped for certain death. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">Its cross is proud and questioning simultaneously- though ever dependent on a deeper center, from which its perpendicularity is derived and its echo resounds. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">From its pale blue frame, it partakes in the triumph of the already-dead: Nevermore will we die. </span>
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<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">Calm and silence, time’s greatest tools, heal everything- because time gets lost in itself, recedes completely, forgets itself- only thus is the wide sea of soul released. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">That is the promise kept by this little book, this compendium of thoughts and images materialized from realms of the in-between. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">Toward the end of the book, mysterious credits embrace the thinkers who brought forth its fruit. There are great names, who here withdraw behind the greatness of their words- as if all of them were written by one single man, one single soul expressing itself in the book. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">Mankind, truly-voiced. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">Whoever is willing to take it up, gains the self and the silence to confront horror. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">The blossoms of a black spring: the intimation that the very first things will be met again at the very end. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">And not as religion would have these things, but as they are held commonly, as every person may perceive them, coming into flower so "slowly that he couldn't tell what they planned to do..." </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">Here everything is true and deep. No idea harasses, no image squints in judgment at an observer. They are sufficient to their own ends and, self-sustaining, reach far into open space- even into one’s own thinking! </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">They give themselves freely to one who understands love. One who searches using the same questions, scouring the immeasurable for faint traces, clues which are held dearer than one’s own decay. For ars moriendi has always begun with the first heartbeat, and they who make life ravishing, exuberant, and worth living belong to a unique school of magic, whose alumni are only reared correctly on a diet of the entirely other-than-ordinary - the Different required by death. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">A reliable friend is death, his companions reliable friends. In each present, passing moment, the dead and the living mold this world jointly. This view is the only possible basis for action in a world so nearly blind. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">The hide of the blind pony acts as blanket to the gathered people. Together they acquire the horse’s strength- unending fortitude and vigor. Oh, they stagger in the lurching movements of purposeful action, they climb, they copulate, they shelter within themselves, they dis-mean, they mis-live, they cannot recognize the conditions of their existence. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">Death finally removes the blanket, allowing them to see freely. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">The images in the book show such sights. Out of the mist - out of these white shadows surrounding the self-searcher - emerge dark forebodings- aquarelles possessing the soul's tenderness, violence and loving clear-sight. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">Again and again, the animals in the paintings, who seem quite unloosed from mortality, are envoys of the other side. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">If they die, they die only allegorically, calmly. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">If there is drama, it is only in our eyes, the eyes of the human spectator. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">Perhaps such is required for us to empathize and to understand their message. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">Again and again, the ships, which we ourselves are. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">Again and again, man in all his magnificence and sorrow, his doubts and wild errors. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">And - surprising and novel - this whole book intrinsically rubs against the grain: nevermore will we die... </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">Much more than a book. A rescinding of time and space, of reason and logic, limitation and finitude, of the lust for a future and validation by a past. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">There is a totally different and new space-time continuum in these pages, breathing eternity out into eternity. Whoever wills is in the heart of it: nave, navel, naval, ship. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">Where we come from and where we go remain numinous. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">But in tender arms we sway and are secure. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">This book will accompany me until I see the archetypes of its images. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">It is - to stout hearts - everything in a nutshell. It is - to the rational - a font of steady confrontation. To the dying - a treasure hoard beyond description. To the most vital among us - a very, very good compass. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">Compass? Yes. A compassion they must dare to aim inward. </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">"Among the dead are thousands of beautiful women." </span>
<br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,255,255)">And men.</span>
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<br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">- Susanne Bummel-Vohland</span>
<br /></span><span style="color:#666666;"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"> translated from the German by Kristofor Minta and Susanne Bummel-Vohland
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<br />hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-20444632225765072782010-09-18T10:29:00.000-07:002010-09-18T11:01:11.082-07:00central to every calamity, every blessing.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKZ2r1aFy4DFeRirubYQ0B9KeTymUdn8iQ4OwC6jy_PlGebdHOvwYy26dnEXV5cy_NR2EMThNk1Pxy_YhYPyalB2gB-IfpPi7-iRO9jOLlPUQfFZW95kCJp9gqsEAOntnrltzE6HcuHSo/s1600/happily2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 306px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKZ2r1aFy4DFeRirubYQ0B9KeTymUdn8iQ4OwC6jy_PlGebdHOvwYy26dnEXV5cy_NR2EMThNk1Pxy_YhYPyalB2gB-IfpPi7-iRO9jOLlPUQfFZW95kCJp9gqsEAOntnrltzE6HcuHSo/s400/happily2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518310290262338610" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><i style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">It is not necessary to live, but it is necessary to live happily.</i><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">-Jules Renard</span></span>hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6611806425680183451.post-57109324315795374552010-09-06T21:12:00.000-07:002010-09-06T21:45:31.952-07:00accessible but veiled<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLrTnJ92SegTW_MS5ENCLHvV5iGO2AKRN1KDsCMgPpuvYTPFD1ZjWC0LF_CjegEg3u5aEQhZy97SqCOr6N5hHYaLDIX4JSEiHjIJwFq_iCDHv2lW8siv_8Be424LlFOmY5ZCeZEnFZlXg/s1600/2736802382_862ce48fc3_o.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 342px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLrTnJ92SegTW_MS5ENCLHvV5iGO2AKRN1KDsCMgPpuvYTPFD1ZjWC0LF_CjegEg3u5aEQhZy97SqCOr6N5hHYaLDIX4JSEiHjIJwFq_iCDHv2lW8siv_8Be424LlFOmY5ZCeZEnFZlXg/s400/2736802382_862ce48fc3_o.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514025973793637954" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZE0NL22hlEB1FP9UuoFbKgqtgzOyPcdPL2caFcyr5P_d5iDIxGehOJgzm3sH01HW6pjEFpwkishPqPmKDMLBAvMLI-inQj7Bj1c-PYyfNaUaPjjb67bRgTaCugUFEVu0dQSEC5u5oa1g/s1600/2736778488_bc70eaea98_o.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 372px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZE0NL22hlEB1FP9UuoFbKgqtgzOyPcdPL2caFcyr5P_d5iDIxGehOJgzm3sH01HW6pjEFpwkishPqPmKDMLBAvMLI-inQj7Bj1c-PYyfNaUaPjjb67bRgTaCugUFEVu0dQSEC5u5oa1g/s400/2736778488_bc70eaea98_o.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514025877565896946" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);font-family:garamond,serif;font-size:130%;" >"It's entirely conceivable that life's splendor surrounds us all, and always in it's complete fullness, accessible but veiled, beneath the surface, invisible, far away. But there it lies - not hostile, not reluctant, not deaf. If we call it by the right word, by the right name, then it comes. This is the essence of magic, which doesn't create but calls."</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:garamond,serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);">- Kafka, </span></span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:100%;" >Tagebucher<br />- </span><span style="color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:100%;" >quoted in Roberto Calasso's astonishing </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);font-size:100%;" >'K'</span><br /><br /></span>hphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01209186399265266738noreply@blogger.com