Monday, April 28, 2008


The midnight, the morning, or the middle of day,

Is the same to the miner who labors away.

Where the demons of death often come by surprise,

One fall of the slate and you're buried alive.

Merle Travis - Dark as a dungeon (additional stanza, rarely performed...)

Sunday, April 27, 2008

closing doors

Eilidh, Eilidh, Eilidh, heart of me, dear and sweet
In dreams I am hearing the whisper, the sound of your running feet
that like the sea-hoofs beat a music by day and night, Eilidh,
On the sands of my heart, my sweet.

O sands, of my heart, what wind moans low along thy shadowy shore?
Is that the deep seaheart I hear with the dying sob at its core?
Each dim lost wave that lapses is like a closing door:
'Tis closing doors they hear at last who soon shall hear no more,
who soon, soon shall hear no more, my grief, no more!
Eilidh, Eilidh, Eilidh!

Come home to the heart of me! 'tis pain I am having ever,
Eilidh, the pain that will not be.
Come home, come home, for closing doors are like the waves of the sea;
once closed, they are closed forever,
Eilidh, lost lost, lost for you and me.

Saturday, April 26, 2008

"...and love, though in a sense it may be admitted to be stronger than death, is by no means so universal and so sure. In fact, love is rare - the love of men. of things, of ideas, the love of perfected skill. For love is the enemy of haste; it takes count of passing days, of men who pass away, of fine art matured slowly in the course of years and doomed in a short time to pass away, too, and be no more."

Joseph Conrad, The Mirror of the Sea

Sunday, April 20, 2008


Nothing, for us, can fill the place of undiminished brightness except the unconscious dark, nothing that of what once we might have been, except the dream that we had never been born.

- Adorno, Minima Moralia

Thursday, April 17, 2008

When we are no longer children, we are already dead.


At first sight I really believed that the only reminders in the Piana graveyard of the nature which, we have always hoped, will endure long after our own end, were the artificial purple, mauve, and pink flowers, obviously pressed upon their customers by French undertakers, made of silk or nylon chiffon, of brightly painted porcelain, wire, and metal appearing not so much a sign of enduring affection as the final emergence of a kind of proof that, despite all assurances to the contrary, we offer our dead only the cheapest substitute for the diverse beauty of life.

-Sebald, Campo Santo

The positive element of kitsch lies in the fact that it sets free for a moment the glimmering realization that you have wasted your life.

- Adorno, Quasi una Fantasia

today is my birthday!

Tuesday, April 15, 2008


"We have art that we may not perish of the truth."

- Friedrich Nietzsche

Monday, April 14, 2008

The cuckoo

The cuckoo is a merry bird, she sings as she flies,
She brings us good tidings and tells us no lies;
She sucks the sweet flowers to make her sing clear,
And she never sings "cuckoo" till summer is near.

O meeting is a pleasure, but parting a grief,
An inconstant lover is worse than a thief;
For a thief will but rob you and swear to be true,
And the very next moment they'll bring you to the grave.

The grave it will rot you and bring you to dust,
There is not one in twenty young men girls can trust;
They will kiss you, and court you and swear to be true,
And the very next moment they'll bid you adieu.

Come all you young women wherever you be,
Build your nest in the top of a tree;
For the leaves they will wither, the branches decay,
And the beauty of fair maids will soon fade away.

- Folk song from Sussex

Sunday, April 13, 2008


"All children talk to their toys. The toys become actors in the great drama of life, reduced in size by the camera obscura of their little brains. The child twists and turns his toy, scratches it, shakes it, bumps it against the walls, throws it on the ground. From time to time he makes it restart its mechanical motions, sometimes in the opposite direction. Its marvelous life comes to a stop. The child, like the people besieging the Tuileries, makes s supreme effort; at last he opens it up, he is the stronger. But where is the soul? This is the beginning of melancholy and gloom."

- Charles Baudelaire


"Talent is perhaps nothing other than successfully sublimated rage, the capacity to convert energies once intensified beyond measure to destroy recalcitrant objects, into the concentration of patient observation, so keeping as tight a hold on the secret of things, as one had earlier when finding no peace until the quavering voice had been wrenched from the mutilated toy."

- Adorno, Minima Moralia