Friday, June 27, 2014

literacki


The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man’s life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die.
~George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones

ars poetica


Today I am fragile
pale
twitching
insane and full of purpose. 
—from “Gravity” - Maura O’Connor

literacki


We are more than the worst thing that’s ever happened to us. All of us need to stop apologizing for having been to hell and come back breathing. 
—Clementine Von Radics, Broken

ponderous

Prisoners - Denis Villeneuve
Nobody ever wrote or painted, sculpted, modeled, built, invented, for another reason than to exit from hell.
Each paint brush touch/strike (coup de pinceau) on the canvas is worst than an event.
As this not for this world
it has never been for this earth that we have all always worked,
fought
screamed of horror, hunger, misery, hatred, scandal or aversion,
that we have all being poisoned
although we have been subjugated by it
and that we have eventually suicide ourselves
as aren’t we all like the poor Van Gogh himself, suicided by society!
I see, while writing those lines, the painter’s blood red face coming to me, in a wall of gutted sunflowers,
in a formidable blaze of opaque hyacinth embers and lapis-lazuli pasture.
All that, in the middle of a bombing like an atoms meteoric that would reveal itself grain by grain,
proof that Van Gogh thought of his canvas as a painter, yes, and only as a painter,
but who would,
by this very fact,
a formidable musician.
What is it to draw? How de manage to do so? That is the action to create a path through an invisible iron wall that seems to be situated between what we feel and what we can. How should we go through this wall? It is useless to hit strongly, we have to sap this wall and go through it with a file, slowly and, in my opinion, with great patience.

original version from Antonin Artaud. Van Gogh Le Suicidé de la Société. Paris: Gallimard 2001

quoth the madman


The secret of dreams is that subject and object are the same. The object is self-luminous, fluent in form, multivalent in its meanings. It’s your dream, the manifestation of your will, and yet you are surprised by it … Write down your dreams. They are your myths. 
—Joseph Campbell

ars poetica

Robert Schumann needs some sleep…
“Life must be back there. You hid it
So no one would find it
And now you can’t remember where.”

John Ashbery, from “Vaucanson,” in April Galleons: Poems

ponder

The First Google Glass
Hugo Gernsback (inventor) - TV-Glasses
Photo : Alfred Eisenstaedt (Time & Life)
"At the temple,
there is a poem called “Loss”,
carved into the stone.
It has three words… but
the poet scratched them out.
You cannot read “Loss”…
You can only feel it."
- Memoirs of a Geisha

literacki

variation of an old gif…
"If only the possible happened, nothing more would happen. If I only did what I can do, I wouldn’t do anything."
- Jacques Derrida, No One is Innocent 

quoth the madman


"I am sick with the self-seeking drives of my soul. Sick. I feel like a man who has seen everything but is decadently enfeebled precisely by this excess of self-awareness."
- Friedrich Nietzsche, Selected Letters

literacki

Let’s try something different

Strange how we decorate pain. 
—Margaret Atwood, from Oh, Morning in the Burned House

ponder


"Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love"
- Charlie Brown

Sunday, June 8, 2014

literacki

 
To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never to forget 
Arundhati Roy, The Cost of Living

ponderous


Melancholia is, I believe, a musical problem: a dissonance, a change in rhythm. While on the outside everything happens with the vertiginous rhythm of a cataract, on the inside is the exhausted adagio of drops of water falling from time to tired time. For this reason the outside, seen from the melancholic inside, appears absurd and unreal, and constitutes ‘the farce we must all play’. But for an instant—because of a wild music, or a drug, or the sexual act carried to a climax—the very slow rhythm of the melancholic soul does not only rise to that of the outside world: it overtakes it with an ineffably blissful exorbitance, and the soul then thrills animated by delirious new energies. 
Alejandra Pizarnik, from “The Bloody Countess” (1971)

literacki


(GIF: Bill Domonkos, 2014) (Photo: Fred Holland,1903)
I believe that we are arks of the covenant and our true nature is not rage or deceit or terror or logic or craft or even sorrow. It is longing.
— Cormac McCarthy, Whales and Men

ars poetica

antipahtico:

Alice in Wonderland ~ Jan Svankmajer
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely.  Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—
They are gone.  They are gone to feed the roses.  Elegant and curled
Is the blossom.  Fragrant is the blossom.  I know.  But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know.  But I do not approve.  And I am not resigned.
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~Edna  St. Vincent Millay, “Dirge Without Music”

ars poetica

     
The clouds had made a crimson crown
    Above the mountains high.
The stormy sun was going down
    In a stormy sky.
Why did you let your eyes so rest on me,
    And hold your breath between?
In all the ages this can never be
    As if it had not been.

quoth the madman


"this ‘richness of inner life’ is fundamentally fake: it is a screen, a false distance, whose function is, as it were, to save my appearance, to render palpable (accessible to my imaginary narcissism) my true social-symbolic identity."
slavoj zizek

quoth the madman


“Even after all this time
The sun never says to the earth
“You owe me”
Look what happens
with a love like that,
It lights the whole sky”

— Hafiz

quoth the madman


I long so much to make beautiful things. But beautiful things require effort and disappointment and perseverance."
Vincent van Gogh

literacki

We got quiet. The garden was combing her hair and putting on earrings. The house was full of dancing creatures, not male and female but both, two lovers in one body. The books downstairs were reciting their poetry to each other, rubbing together, whispering through the leather covers. Wine was flowing through the water pipes. You had caught my leaping heart in your hand like a fish. 
—Francesca Lia Block, Wasteland

literacki

But we comforted ourselves with what we really meant to say, which was: “I don’t normally feel this good about what I’m doing.”
Measure the hope of that moment, that feeling.
Everything else will be measured against it. 
—David Levithan, The Lover’s Dictionary

quoth the madman

Echo and Narcissus by John William Waterhouse
But I have been familiar with ruins too long to dislike desolation. 
— Lord Byron, in a letter to Thomas Moore

quoth the madman

Pee-Wee’s Playhouse
To live is to suffer, and whoever tells children this is not so is dishonest—cruel… If you live, you struggle. It is the same for all of us. What is different are the weapons you have and the weapons that are used against you. That is the combination of personality and circumstance. That is fate.
– Maria Callas

quoth the madman

nitratediva:

Vera Zorina dances for a G.I.—in his dreams—in Star-Spangled Rhythm (1942).
“The fact that life has no meaning is a reason to live —moreover, the only one.”
— Emil Cioran