Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Naked and dressed in stars
Labels:
Edmond Jabès,
Gary Lutz,
Jabès,
light,
Lisette Model,
the self,
words,
writing
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Thursday, April 4, 2013
The sound keeps coming out of the flowers
coming.”
-Pablo Neruda
Image: Spike Mafford, the black dots spell out the title, The
Image: Spike Mafford, the black dots spell out the title, The
Meadow
Title: Basso
Labels:
Basso,
flowers,
Neruda,
Pablo Neruda,
poetry,
Spike Mafford,
spring,
writing
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
So Many Stones (Or: The Turret’s Cage is Shapely)
it. Wanting to write and not being able to find the time or the place for
it. Wanting to write and not being able to find the time or the place for
it. Wanting to write and not being able to find the time or the place for
it. Wanting to write and not being able to find the time or the place
for it. Wanting to write and not being able to find the time or the
place for it. Wanting to write and not being able to find the time or
the place for it. Wanting to write and not being able to find the time
or the place for it. Wanting to write and not being able to find the
time or the place for it. Wanting to write and not being able to find
the time or the place for it.
-Raymond Carver, on "things too tedious to talk about" +
-Raymond Carver, on "things too tedious to talk about" +
Image: Gao Xingjian, Forêt vierge, 2006
Title: Anna Akhmatova, from "Solitude"
Friday, March 29, 2013
The Living Infinite
A man faced with his own immensity
Wakes all the waves, all their loose wandering fire.
Theodore Roethke, excerpt from “The Far Field”
Image: Latefa Wiersch
Title: Jules Verne, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea
Title: Jules Verne, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea
Monday, March 18, 2013
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Her pockets full of lichens and seeds
Soul is the place,
stretched like a surface of millstone grit between
body and mind,
where such necessity grinds itself out
-Anne Carson, excerpt from “The Glass Essay”
Image: John B. Greene, Statue fragments
Title: Mary Oliver, from "Sleeping in the Forest"
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
When I lean over the chasm of myself
We are only lightly covered with buttoned cloth; and beneath these pavements are shells, bones and silence.
-Virginia Woolf, The Waves
Image: Found here
Title: Rilke, from The Book of Hours I, 3
Labels:
chasms,
Rainer Maria Rilke,
Rilke,
silence,
Virginia Woolf,
Woolf,
writing
Saturday, February 16, 2013
This forest of letters
Labels:
books,
Edmond Jabes,
Edmond Jabès,
forests,
Susan Howe,
trees,
words,
writing
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Saturday, February 9, 2013
The map has been barely marked
freed—that’s what some writer friends and I have theorized.
But I can’t always stop when I get an idea. It depends on the
road— North Dakota, no traffic. When I’m driving on a very
empty stretch of road I do write with one hand. It’s hardly
legible, but still, you don’t want to have to stop every time.”
-Louise Erdrich
Note: Yes.
Post Note: As unimpressed as I have been with Erdrich's writing (several attempts, half-finished readings, abandoned books bedside), this quote sings.
Image: Shoji Ueda, Winter 3
Title: Gerald Murnane, Inland
Note: Yes.
Post Note: As unimpressed as I have been with Erdrich's writing (several attempts, half-finished readings, abandoned books bedside), this quote sings.
Image: Shoji Ueda, Winter 3
Title: Gerald Murnane, Inland
Labels:
Gerald Murnane,
Louise Erdrich,
Shoji Ueda,
The Paris Review,
writing,
yes
Friday, February 1, 2013
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Opacity
Tristram Shandy does not want to be born, because he does not want to die. Every means and every weapon is valid to save oneself from death and time. If a straight line is the shortest distance between two fated and inevitable points, digressions will lengthen it; and if these digressions become so complex, so tangled and tortuous, so rapid as to hide their own tracks, who knows - perhaps death may not find us, perhaps time will lose its way, and perhaps we ourselves can remain concealed in our shifting hiding places.
-Carlo Levi
Images: Sigurdur Gudmundsson, Gottfried Wiegand, Compagnie Willi Dorner
Friday, January 18, 2013
In the vast world or in the immense past
… the silence
Holds with its gloved hand
The wild hawk of the mind.
— R. S. Thomas, excerpt from “The Untamed”
Images: Found; Edward Curtis
Title: Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space
Labels:
book,
books,
Edward Curtis,
fiction,
Gaston Bachelard,
silence,
writing
Monday, January 14, 2013
A swarm of voluptuous moths
Amazingly,
I am too the memory of a sword
and of a solitary, falling sun,
turning itself to gold, then gray, then nothing.
I am the one who sees the approaching ships
from harbor. And I am the dwindled books,
the rare engravings worn away by time;
the one who envies those already dead.
Stranger to be the woman who interlaces
such words as these, in some room in a house.
-adapted from Jorge Luis Borges, “I”
Image: Christo and Jeanne Claude, Wrapped Trees, Fondation Beyeler and Berower Park, Riehen, Switzerland, 1997-98
Photo: Wolfgang Volz
Title: Edmond Jabès, The Book of Questions: Volume I [The Book of Yukel, Return to the Book], translated by Rosmarie Waldrop
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Which I is I?
How can it be described? How can any of it be described? The trip and the story of the trip are always two different things. The narrator is the one who has stayed home, but then, afterward, presses her mouth upon the traveler’s mouth, in order to make the mouth work, to make the mouth say, say, say. One cannot go to a place and speak of it; one cannot both see and say, not really. One can go, and upon returning make a lot of hand motions and indications with the arms. The mouth itself, working at the speed of light, at the eye’s instructions, is necessarily struck still; so fast, so much to report, it hangs open and dumb as a gutted bell.
-Lorrie Moore, “People Like That Are the Only People Here”
Image: Flickr / francyvieste
Title: Theodore Roethke, from “In A Dark Time”
Image: Flickr / francyvieste
Title: Theodore Roethke, from “In A Dark Time”
Labels:
All that unsayable life,
Lorrie Moore,
Theodore Roethke,
trips,
writing
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
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