IV

His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.

from Preludes by T.S. Eliot

mythologyofblue:

Nedre Slottsgate in Oslo, Norway, in 1882 

mythologyofblue:

Nedre Slottsgate in Oslo, Norway, in 1882 

To the Light of September

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
endless summer
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

you
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

Source: Poetry (September 2003)
poetryfoundation
Emma McNally - d12

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.

Robert Ellman

thank you Time’s Flow Stemmed

Gisèle Freund - Samuel Beckett sitting on his desk

Gisèle Freund - Samuel Beckett sitting on his desk

Und der Alptraum sprach zu mir: du wirst wachsen.
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.
Roberto Bolaño - Die romantischen Hunde. Gedichte.
veröffentlicht in der Ausgabe SINN UND FORM 5/2014
René Magritte - Natural Encounters

René Magritte - Natural Encounters

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 KynclThe symbol of the human rights initiative Charta 77 on a house wall in Prague around 1977

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”
Henri Cartier-Bresson

Henri Cartier-Bresson

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

Michaël Borremans (Belgian, b. 1963), Automat (I), 2008