warming up to these Zaderatsky preludes in c# and c:
(a faltering, teetering-on-a-melody melody)
("[don't] quit that moody brooding"!)
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@unjustlyunread
warming up to these Zaderatsky preludes in c# and c:
(a faltering, teetering-on-a-melody melody)
("[don't] quit that moody brooding"!)
in potentia
— Paul Valéry, from Analects, trans. Stuart Gilbert
(one of his more red-blooded pensées, but better than Goethe's one epigram about young and old women)
("if looks could [fecundate]")
Have we said enough now, and can we be released? [...] No; we must sing another incantation, if we can find another one that works against the pain. Perhaps what we have already said would do, if someone were to chant it repeatedly.
— Plotinus, appropriated from Hadot's Plotinus; or, The Simplicity of Vision
("What novel kind of incantation could we find?")
("Whenever I was downcast I asked Pistorius to play that passacaglia by the old master Buxtehude. Then I sat in the dark church in the evening, lost in that strange, intimate music which seemed to be submerged in itself, to be listening to itself[.]")
p.s.
Archie Shepp providing better forms (than words) for breath.
("In Inuit, 'to make poetry' is also 'to breathe'. Both derive from 'anerca' (the soul).")
people often mention that some of Wittgenstein's inheritance went to Rilke and Trakl, but we should also remember he sent a stranger in need some underwear he could spare—you dropped your crown, king:
while looking for more context regarding a Wittgenstein quote used as an epigraph by Zwicky, i became merrily lost in the weeds—here are some colourful excerpts from Drury's Conversations with Wittgenstein:
coda:
(refrain:
You can’t imagine how clever you have to be in order to never be ridiculous. — Chamfort, trans. Parmée)
Mendelssohn's Variations sérieuses, op. 54 played by Brendel
("The work was written as part of a campaign to raise funds for the erection of a large bronze statue of Ludwig van Beethoven in his home town of Bonn.")
some slippery fishes:
(iykyk)
drollololololol:
(behold, a Russian beauty (and other stories in modern fiction))
(i was shopping for a Nabokov collection because of Gerald Murnane's "First Love", which also inspired me to read—in a Murnanian way—other stories with the same title; so far, i've read Turgenev's and Beckett's, looking for more)
i recently read Kazuki Tomokawa's memoir, and the above excerpts made me think of how many people, like myself, who first heard this album not knowing anything about it, not even knowing the language, who were completely stunned from the first track to the last: Tomokawa managed to re-create his "bolt from the blue" (cf. Valéry's task of the poet), he managed to transmit that lineal resonance.
(also: "the poet is an agent of destruction, a virus" lol
(perhaps a latent one))
Horowitz playing Rach's sonata no. 2, II. non allegro.
i love the way he mixes the two versions, and the string breaking was divine intervention—am undecided if malevolent or benevolent.
“If walking on two legs is not natural to man it is certainly an invention that does him credit.”
— Lichtenberg, trans. Hollingdale
Yang Chu (c. 350 B.C.) wept at the cross-roads because whichever road he chose would lead to a new cross-roads and multiply the chances of having lost his way.
(poets and exponential sadness)
occasionally, this riotous scene, this Kafka-like parable by Werner Herzog comes to mind:
(... and ['zog] against all.)
((and this, too))
(the) two types of poet:
those who forget and those who keep re-membering.
for instance, Tu Fu's crows:
in his later poems:
("my old friends")
in his last poems:
an endnote:
("Li Po died as the legend says he died: out drunk in a boat, he fell into a river and drowned trying to embrace the moon.")
a translator's endnote from The Selected Poems of Tu Fu, trans. David Hinton
(to love from the distance of memory, from the distance of images)
("Here lost—I feel it drifting, this whole empty boat")