Forgetting is like a great alchemy free of secrets, limpid, transforming everything to the present. In the end it makes our lives into this visible and tangible thing we hold in our hands, with no folds left hidden in the past. — César Aira, The Seamstress and the Wind. (New Directions June 30, 2011) Originally… Continue reading César Aira
Into flowers, into women, I have awakened. Too weak to think of strength, I have thought all day, Or dozed among standing friends. I lie in night, now, A small mound under linen like the drifted snow. — W. D. Snodgrass, from “The Operation,” Heart’s Needle (Alfred A. Knpf, 1983)
I have been Homer; shortly, I shall be No One, like Ulysses; shortly, I shall be all men; I shall be dead. — Jorge Luis Borges, from “The Immortal,” Labyrinths: Selected Stories & Other Writings. (New Directions; Augmented edition 1964) Originally published 1962.
Heck, it’s anybody’s story, A sentimental journey—“gonna take a sentimental journey,” And we do, but you wake up under the table of a dream: You are that dream, and it is the seventh layer of you. We haven’t moved an inch, and everything has changed. — John Ashbery, from “More Pleasant Adventures,“ A Wave (Open… Continue reading John Ashbery
Among pernicious myths is the one where people always get very upbeat and generous and other-directed right before they eliminate their own map for keeps. The truth is that the hours before a suicide are usually an interval of enormous conceit and self-involvement. ― David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest. (Back Bay Books; 1st Paperback Ed… Continue reading David Foster Wallace
Sometimes 1. Something came up out of the dark. It wasn’t anything I had ever seen before. It wasn’t an animal or a flower, unless it was both. Something came up out of the water, a head the size of a cat but muddy and… Continue reading Mary Olive
After having struggled madly to solve all problems, after having suffered on the heights of despair, in the supreme hour of revelation, you will find that the only answer, the only reality, is silence. — Emil M. Cioran, On the Heights of Despair, (University Of Chicago Press,1996)