nuthin' but time

When the world is reduced to a single dark wood for our two pairs of dazzled eyes—to a beach for two faithful children—to a musical house for our clear understanding—then I shall find you.
   When there is only one old man on earth, lonely, peaceful, handsome, living in unsurpassed luxury, then I am at your feet.
   When I have realized all your memories,—when I am the girl who can tie your hands,—then I will stifle you.

Phrases excerpt; from undated Illuminations (approx. 1872-4?)
(translation by Wallace Fowlie, 1996)

by Arthur Rimbaud

the Globe & Mail: "Bret Easton Ellis declares Alice Munro 'overrated'€™ and the Nobel Prize 'a joke' "

It’s unlikely many literary-watchers are too surprised by Ellis taking a shot at the 82-year-old Munro. In recent years, Ellis has gone out of his way to become the great contrarian. Last year, he went on Twitter to tell his followers that rival author David Foster Wallace was “the most tedious, overrated, tortured, pretentious writer of my generation.”

More recently, Ellis declared the well-received sci-fi thriller Gravity as “totally boring.”

On the flipside, Ellis has publicly stated his belief that the blind early-round auditions of The Voice are “probably the most emotionally stirring and suspenseful episodes on television right now.”

To recap: Bret Easton Ellis believes Munro is unworthy of acclaim, but really admires a reality TV singing competition starring Christina Aguilera?

Let’s consider the source.

by Andrew Ryan (Oct. 11, 2013)

“I discovered Leonard Cohen, who had a literary approach to lyrics. He had published two novels and a few volumes of poetry. For a Jewish guy, his imagery was very Catholic. Lot of saints and Madonnas. He was like a French chanteur. I liked the idea that a musician could be utterly self-sufficient. You write the songs yourself, sing them yourself, orchestrate them yourself. I found this appealing, and I began to write songs.”
—Kazuo Ishiguro, on Leonard Cohen

“Waiting for Godot was not allowed. Neither was Henry Miller. The Soviets condemned them both. Miller would have been used as an example of decadence, being a very good analyst of how terrible and monstrous American culture was. That they liked, but they wouldn’t publish him. I guess it must have been the sex. With Beckett, it must have been the hopelessness.”
— Barney Rosset

excerpt from “Letters From Iceland”, (1937)

Isn’t it true however far we’ve wandered into our provinces of persecution, where our regrets accuse, we keep returning back to the common faith from which we’ve all dissented, back to the hands, the feet, the faces? Children are always there and take the hands, even when they are most terrified. Those in love cannot make up their minds to go or stay. Artist and doctor return most often. Only the mad will never, never come back. For doctors keep on worrying while away, in case their skill is suffering or deserted. Lovers have lived so long with giants and elves, they want belief again in their own size. And the artist prays ever so gently, let me find pure all that can happen. Only uniqueness is success. For instance let me perceive the images of history. All that I push away with doubt and travel, today’s and yesterdays alike, like bodies.

by: W.H. Auden & Louis MacNeice

(Source: telethon)

Seven-word autobiographies

(from the 'LIVE from the NYPL' series)
Rem Koolhaas: Mystic rational sober baroque patient immediate
Anish Kapoor: As if to celebrate I discovered a mountain
Joan Didion: Seven words do not yet define me.
Malcolm Gladwell: Father said: “Anything but journalism.” I rebelled.
John Irving: Imagined missing father; wrestled, wrote, fathered children.
Paul Holdengräber: Mother always said: Two ears, one mouth.
Ed Ruscha: Lapsed catholic / Newspaper carrier / Hitchhiker / Sign painter / Printer’s devil / Daydreamer / Artist
by Frank O’Hara


     From a gold terrace,—amidst silken cords, gray veils, green velvets and crystal discs which darken like bronze in the sun,—I see the foxglove opening on a tapestry of silver threads eyes, and hair.
     Pieces of yellow gold sown on the agate, mahogany pillars supporting an emerald dome, bouquets of white satin and delicate stalks of rubies surround the water-rose.
     Like a god with large blue eyes and a snow body, the sea and the sky entice to the marble stairs the swarm of young, strong roses.

from undated Illuminations (approx. 1872-4?)
(translation by Wallace Fowlie, 1996)

by Arthur Rimbaud

What is more beautiful than night
and someone in your arms
that’s what we love about art
it seems to prefer us and stays

─────► Frank O’Hara, from “To You

(Source: proustitute)

A Quiet Poem

When music is far enough away
the eyelid does not often move

and objects are still as lavender
without breath or distant rejoinder.

The cloud is then so subtly dragged
away by the silver flying machine

that the thought of it alone echoes
unbelievably; the sound of the motor falls

like a coin toward the ocean’s floor
and the eye does not flicker

as it does when in the loud sun a coin
rises and nicks the near air. Now,

slowly, the heart breathes to music
while the coins lie in wet yellow sand. 

by Frank O’Hara