t e r r i b l y c u n e i f o r m

Egon Schiele: Still Life with Books (1916)

terribly — Fri, 26 Apr 2024 14:25:17 +0000

The post Egon Schiele: Still Life with Books (1916) first appeared on t e r r i b l y c u n e i f o r m.

Nick Cave: Making art…

terribly — Tue, 23 Apr 2024 17:23:05 +0000

Making art is the great expression of joy and optimism. Music, art, remind us of our fundamental capacity to create beautiful things out of the fuckeries of life.

The post Nick Cave: Making art… first appeared on t e r r i b l y c u n e i f o r m.

Michael Ondaatje: Stella

terribly — Thu, 18 Apr 2024 15:33:04 +0000

This morning before daybreak a thunderstorm

In the last hours before her death
her enemies came. A raccoon, that storm,
the FedEx truck manned by a gentle woman
who’d recently lost her own dog.
Considering the woman who was usually her enemy
our dog perhaps read the grief in her,

just as, the night before, a raccoon
along the fence backlit by moonlight
watched our dog drink noisily from the fountain,
her thin body so thirsty! never sensing
the creature who continued
along the fence and disappeared

So many things to learn, keep on learning
during these last days, watching us
with an awareness that we perhaps
have not learned but shall

Now we are less. How do we become more?

How to die courteous and beautiful
protecting her house, guarding our door

The post Michael Ondaatje: Stella first appeared on t e r r i b l y c u n e i f o r m.

Jorie Graham: Upon the Furthest Slope You Know

terribly — Thu, 18 Apr 2024 15:24:57 +0000

The spaces
between
things began
speaking. So it was

I understood I
was now
to remain
silent. Saw how

we were all
plunged
into this new strengthening
silence. Was it

vision was it

catastrophe. This

first person
I use here
as a way of referring
to my being in

abeyance – to my
unknowing –
though who are we kidding,
it was not of the radiant kind

where we wait in line
willingly
eyes closed
for the tap on the high spot

of the soul
for illumination. No.
We knew all along
we were being driven

however kindly –
and always with water & treats
and names murmured
which had been bestowed

upon us
long ago
before we could resist
the temptation

of being made so
singular –
to slaughter.
So the things had seemed

secretly our allies,
but free,
so free.
They had not acceded

to these transactions.
Had remained mute.
Neither accomplices
nor witnesses –

mute …
This stand of trees
before me now,
and yes the one tree

my need for companionship
picks out,
that certain one
in its own light,

solitary
it seems to me.
It seems to me
we regard each other

here now, blazing,
at the end.
But it is no longer
my turn

to inquire,
to push around it & at it.
And yet how its branches amaze me.
How is it I

have not seen them before
for what they are,
these miles of nowhere-going
tangling & re-

directing this
October light, every journey
silver-grey with
roiling shadows going

nowhere

in the dawn wind.
What is nowhere
is the first thing
I make out

when it finally begins
to almost speak
to me. Listen to it
when it speaks to you – it is

the next world.
We are done.
The light is rising, the light is
sharpening

everything,

but not the mind.

There are no limits
to the world’s
imagination now.

The post Jorie Graham: Upon the Furthest Slope You Know first appeared on t e r r i b l y c u n e i f o r m.

Byron: from Canto III, Don Juan

terribly — Thu, 18 Apr 2024 15:01:22 +0000

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
    Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think;
    ’Tis strange, the shortest letter which man uses
Instead of speech, may form a lasting link
    Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces
Frail man, when paper—even a rag like this,
Survives himself, his tomb, and all that ’s his.

And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank,
    His station, generation, even his nation,
Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank
    In chronological commemoration,
Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank,
    Or graven stone found in a barrack’s station
In digging the foundation of a closet,
May turn his name up, as a rare deposit.

The post Byron: from Canto III, Don Juan first appeared on t e r r i b l y c u n e i f o r m.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky: from The Brothers Karamazov

terribly — Tue, 19 Sep 2023 01:10:18 +0000

And besides, what is suffering? I’m not afraid of it, even if it’s numberless. I’m not afraid of it now; I was before. You know, maybe I won’t even give any answers in court … And it seems to me there’s so much strength in me now that I can overcome everything, all sufferings, only in order to say and tell myself every moment: I am! In a thousand torments—I am; writhing under torture—but I am. Locked up in a tower, but still I exist, I see the sun, and if I don’t see the sun, still I know it is. And the whole of life is there—in knowing that the sun is.

The post Fyodor Dostoyevsky: from The Brothers Karamazov first appeared on t e r r i b l y c u n e i f o r m.

Javier Marías: from The Infatuations

terribly — Wed, 06 Sep 2023 01:07:27 +0000

Yes, everything becomes attenuated, but it’s also true to say that nothing entirely disappears, there remain faint echoes and elusive memories that can surface at any moment like the fragments of gravestones in the room in a museum that no one visits, as cadaverous as ruined tympana with their fractured inscriptions, past matter, dumb matter, almost indecipherable, nearly meaningless, absurd remnants preserved for no reason, because they can never be put together again, and they give out less light than darkness, are not so much memory as forgetting. And yet there they are, and no one destroys them or pieces together their sundry fragments scattered or lost centuries ago: they are kept there like small treasures or out of superstition, as valuable witnesses to the fact that someone once existed and died and had a name, even though we cannot see the whole person and reconstructing him is impossible, even though no one cares at all about that someone who is now no one.

Yes, the dead are quite wrong to come back, and yet almost all of them do, they won’t give up, and they strive to become a burden to the living until the living shake them off in order to move on. We never eliminate all vestiges, though, we never manage, truly, once and for all, to silence that past matter, and sometimes we hear an almost imperceptible breathing.

The post Javier Marías: from The Infatuations first appeared on t e r r i b l y c u n e i f o r m.

Wislawa Szymborska: Untitled

terribly — Tue, 22 Aug 2023 20:43:31 +0000

The best Polish poem of recent years.
Author unknown.
But certainly not poet A,
poet B, poet S.

The text is densely written
from right to left
and left to right
and from top to bottom
and bottom to top
and crosswise
and in tiny veinlets
up to the beautifully serrated edges.

The customs agent didn’t know the suspect code.
He just checked for letters,
seized books,
tossed photos,
shredded diplomas.

The best Polish poem of recent years ended up abroad.

And it can now be read against the light
in Vienna
in Toronto
in Haifa
in Amsterdam.

As with all true poetry –
it’s difficult to translate
into the leaflet of a different birch
from a different cemetery.

Translated by Clare Cavanagh

The post Wislawa Szymborska: Untitled first appeared on t e r r i b l y c u n e i f o r m.

Plato: from Phaedrus

terribly — Tue, 22 Aug 2023 20:29:35 +0000

Yes, because there’s something odd about writing, Phaedrus, which makes it exactly like painting. The offspring of painting stand there as if alive, but if you ask them a question they maintain an aloof silence. It’s the same with written words: you might think they were speaking as if they had some intelligence, but if you want an explanation of any of the things they’re saying and you ask them about it, they just go on and on for ever giving the same single piece of information. Once any account has been written down, you find it all over the place, hobnobbing with completely inappropriate people no less than with those who understand it, and completely failing to know who it should and shouldn’t talk to. And faced with rudeness and unfair abuse it always needs its father to come to its assistance, since it is incapable of defending or helping itself.

– trans. Robin Waterfield

The post Plato: from Phaedrus first appeared on t e r r i b l y c u n e i f o r m.

Plato: from Phaedrus

terribly — Tue, 22 Aug 2023 20:23:11 +0000

SOCRATES: All right. The story I heard is set in Naucratis in Egypt, where there was one of the ancient gods of Egypt—the one to whom the bird they call the ‘ibis’ is sacred, whose name is Theuth. This deity was the inventor of number, arithmetic, geometry, and astronomy, of games involving draughts and dice—and especially of writing. At the time, the king of the whole of Egypt around the capital city of the inland region (the city the Greeks call “Egyptian Thebes”), was Thamous, or Amon, as the Greeks call him. Theuth came to Thamous and showed him the branches of expertise he had invented, and suggested that they should be spread throughout Egypt. Thamous asked him what good each one would do, and subjected Theuth’s explanations to criticism if he thought he was going wrong and praise if thought he was right. The story goes that Thamous expressed himself at length to Theuth about each of the branches of expertise, both for and against them. It would take a long time to go through all Thamous’ views, but when it was the turn of writing, Theuth said, “Your highness, this science will increase the intelligence of the people of Egypt and improve their memories. For this invention is a potion for memory and intelligence.” But Thamous replied, “You are most ingenious, Theuth. But one person has the ability to bring branches of expertise into existence, another to assess the extent to which they will harm or benefit those who use them. The loyalty you feel to writing, as its originator, has just led you to tell me the opposite of its true effect. It will atrophy people’s memories. Trust in writing will make them remember things by relying on marks made by others, from outside themselves, not on their own inner resources, and so writing will make the things they have learnt disappear from their minds. Your invention is a potion for jogging the memory, not for remembering. You provide your students with the appearance of intelligence, not real intelligence. Because your students will be widely read, though without any contact with a teacher, they will seem to be men of wide knowledge, when they will usually be ignorant. And this spurious appearance of intelligence will make them difficult company.”

PHAEDRUS: Socrates, it doesn’t take much for you to make up stories from Egypt and anywhere else in the world you feel like.

The post Plato: from Phaedrus first appeared on t e r r i b l y c u n e i f o r m.