Fiasella

Böcker mest och återfunnet.

[soracities]

“I also find the stern distinction between fiction and nonfiction odd. It’s not at all a natural way of splitting up narrated experience, just as we don’t go around the museum looking for fictional or nonfictional paintings. Painters know that everything is a combination of what’s observed, what’s imagined, what’s overheard, and what’s been done before. Is Monet a nonfiction painter and Ingres a fiction painter? It’s the least illuminating thing we could ask about their works.”

— Teju Cole, interviewed by Aleksandar Hemon for Bomb Magazine

[apoemaday]

In the Kitchen Where Mushrooms Were Washed

by Jane Hirshfield

In a kitchen where mushrooms were washed, the mushroom scent lingers.

As the sea must keep for a long time the scent of the whale.

As a person who’s once loved completely, a country once conquered, does not release that stunned knowledge.

They must want to be found, those strange-shaped, rising morels, clownish puffballs.

Lichens have served as a lamp-wick. Clean-burning coconuts, olives. Dried salmon, sheep fat, a carcass of petrel set blazing: light that is fume and abradement.

Unburnable mushrooms are other. They darken the air they come into.

Theirs the scent of having been traveled, been taken.

[filmnoirsbian]

From Tenderhooks by Joan Tierney

[tristealven]

“Every children’s book should have a path in it where the writer stops and the child goes on. A threat or a delight that can never be explained. A face never completely revealed.”

— Tove Jansson, from Moominvalley, ed. Mirja Kivi, 1998 (via godrevy)

[pastperfectcontinuous]

Jeanette Winterson, Art Objects: Essays on Ecstacy and Effrontery

[lnfini-deactivated20230930]

[ID 1 start:

Learning to read is more than learning to group the letters on a page. Learning to read is a skill that marshals the entire resources of body and mind. I do not mean the endless dross- skimming that passes for literacy, I mean the ability to engage with a text as you would another human being. To recognise it in its own right, separate, particular, to let it speak in its own voice, not in a ventriloquism of yours. To find its relationship to you that is not its relationship to anyone else. To recognise, at the same time, that you are neither the means nor the method of its existence and that the love between you is not a mutual suicide. The love between you offers an alternative paradigm; a complete and fully realised vision in a chaotic unrealised world. Art is not amnesia, and the popular idea of books as escapism or diversion, misses altogether what art is. There is plenty of escapism and diversion to be had, but it cannot be had from real books, real pictures, real music, real theatre. Art is the realisation of complex emotion.

We value sensitive machines. We spend billions of pounds to make them more sensitive yet, so that they detect minerals deep in the earth’s crust, radioactivity thousands of miles away. don’t value sensitive human beings and we spend no money on their priority. As machines become more delicate and human beings coarser, will antennae and fibreoptic claim for themselves what was uniquely human? Not rationality, not logic, but that strange network of fragile perception, that means I can imagine, that teaches me to love, a lodging of recognition and tenderness where I sometimes know the essential beat that rhythms life.

/end ID 1]

[ID 2 start:

The artist as radar can help me. The artist who combines an exceptional sensibility with an exceptional control over her material. This equipment, unfunded, unregarded, gift and discipline kept tuned to untapped frequencies, will bring home signals otherwise lost to me. Will make for my ears and eyes what was the property of the hawk. This sharpness and stretch of wings has not in it the comfort of escape. It has in it warnings and chances and painful beauty. It is not what I know and it is not what I am. The mirror turns out to be a through looking-glass, and beyond are places I have never reached. Once reached there is no need to leave them again. Art is not tourism it is an ever-expanding territory. Art is not Capitalism, what I find in it, I may keep. The title takes my name.

The realisation of complex emotion.

/end ID 2]

[seaglasssiren]

Salt bride

Artist Sigalit Landau leaves a dress in the Dead Sea for 2 months

[longshankstumblarian]

“Books have a unique way of stopping time in a particular moment and saying: Let’s not forget this.”

— Dave Eggers (b. 8 January 1970)

[shisasan]

“I love the autumn-that melancholy season that suits memories so well.”

— November, Gustave Flaubert (originally published 1842)

[the-final-sentence]

“‘But what,’ demanded the jawbones, with sinister insistency, ‘is love?’”

— Tanith Lee, from Delusion’s Master

[weirdlandtv]

Trans ī re. By Norwegian artist, Fredrik Raddum.

[zoomar]

Me when I go out for my walk without peanuts for the crows. 

[longshankstumblarian]

“My life is a reading list.”

— A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving (via bookaddict24-7)

[litverve]

“The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was Spawning snow and pink roses against it Soundlessly collateral and incompatible: World is suddener than we fancy it. World is crazier and more of it than we think, Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion A tangerine and spit the pips and feel The drunkenness of things being various. And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes – On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one’s hands – There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.”

— Louis Macneice, “Snow”

[thesoundofmusic1965-deactivated]

[venusflysap]

“almost every woman i have ever met has a secret belief that she is just on the edge of madness, that there is some deep, crazy part within her, that she must be on guard constantly against ‘losing control’ — of her temper, of her appetite, of her sexuality, of her feelings, of her ambition, of her secret fantasies, of her mind”

— Elana Dykewomon “Notes for a Magazine"

[macrolit]

“I say let the world go to hell, but I should always have my tea.”

— Notes from the Underground, Fyodor Dostoevsky (b. 11 November 1821)

[fuckyeahreading]

“One strategy for nighttime reading on stressful days is to have one or two of your favorite books handy. Place bookmarks for a particular passage that you find calming and lovely, like a happy place.”

— 6 Of The Best Bookish Sleep Habits http://bit.ly/2y3jSu6 (via bookriot)

[burningwell]

“But from time to time. From time to time. What tenderness in these little words, what savagery.”

— Samuel Beckett – from Molloy (via liliesofpur-i-ty)

[fuckyeahreading]

“But Love cannot understand this. He cannot comprehend another’s infinity; he is conscious only of his own – flying sunbeam, falling rose, pebble that asks for one quiet plunge below the fretting interplay of space and time.”

— E.M. Forster, Howards End (via commonplace-nook)