by W.S. Merwin
When you are already here
you appear to be only
a name that tells of you
whether you are present or not
and for now it seems as though
you are still summer
still the high familiar
yet with a glint
of bronze in the chill mornings
and the late yellow petals
of the mullein fluttering
on the stalks that lean
over their broken
shadows across the cracked ground
but they all know
that you have come
the seed heads of the sage
the whispering birds
with nowhere to hide you
to keep you for later
who fly with them
you who are neither
before nor after
you who arrive
with blue plums
that have fallen through the night
perfect in the dew
Emma McNally - d12
That ‘writers write’ is meant to be self-evident. People like to say it. I find it is hardly ever true. Writers drink. Writers rant. Writers phone. Writers sleep. I have met very few writers who write at all.Renata Adler - Speedboat
Beckett was addicted to silences, and so was Joyce; they engaged in conversations which consisted often of silences directed towards each other, both suffused with sadness, Beckett mostly for the world, Joyce mostly for himself.
thank you Time’s Flow Stemmed
Gisèle Freund - Samuel Beckett sitting on his desk
Und der Alptraum sprach zu mir: du wirst wachsen.Roberto Bolaño - Die romantischen Hunde. Gedichte.
Die Bilder des Schmerzes und des Labyrinths hinter dir lassen,
und du wirst vergessen.
Doch damals wäre wachsen ein Verbrechen gewesen.
Ich bin hier, sagte ich, mit den romantischen Hunden,
und hier werde ich bleiben.
veröffentlicht in der Ausgabe SINN UND FORM 5/2014
True enough, the country is calm. Calm as a morgue or a grave, would you not say?Václav Havel in a letter to Gustáv Husák, Czech communist president 1975-1989
by Ivan Kyncl
The symbol of the human rights initiative Charta 77 on a house wall in Prague around 1977
Vielleicht verhält es sich ja so, wie kürzlich erwogen wurde - dass nämlich das Gehirn eine Bestätigung braucht, ob wir noch am Leben sind, bevor es sich der Mühe unterzieht, wach und bei Bewusstsein zu bleiben.António Damásio aus “Descartes’ Irrtum”
He thrust his hand at me. I have an idea I told him once again to get out of my way. I can still see the hand coming toward me, pallid, opening and closing. As if self-propelled. I do not know what happened then. But a little later, perhaps a long time later, I found him stretched on the ground, his head in a pulp. I am sorry I cannot indicate more clearly how this result was obtained, it would have been something worth reading.Samuel Beckett, from 'Molloy'
Michaël Borremans (Belgian, b. 1963), Automat (I), 2008
There we were - demented children mincing about in clothes that no one ever wore, speaking as no man ever spoke, swearing love in wigs and rhymed couplets, killing each other with wooden swords, hollow protestations of faith hurled after empty promises of vengeance - and every gesture, every pose, vanishing into the thin unpopulated air. We ransomed our dignity to the clouds, and the uncomprehending birds listened. Don’t you see?! We’re actors - we’re the opposite of people!Tom Stoppard - Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead