Tuesday, April 26, 2011

You cannot say

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

T. S. Eliot’s manuscript of The Waste Land with corrections by Ezra Pound.
via catherinewillis: (source)
Source: proustitute

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Trees are poems

 http://26.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lhb3b8DKeD1qzlqbho1_500.jpg


"Trees are poems that earth writes upon the sky. We fell them down and turn them into paper, that we may record our emptiness."
— Khalil Gibran (via aurai)
Ki Yoong
(via occidio)
 

Friday, April 22, 2011

Not till it is held in your renouncing



What birds plunge through is not the intimate space
in which you see all forms intensified.
(Out in the Open, you would be denied
your self, would disappear into that vastness.)

Space reaches from us and translates the world:
to know a tree, in its true element,
throw inner space around it, from that pure
abundance in you. Surround it with restraint.
It has no limits. Not till it is held
in your renouncing is it truly there.

 Piero Roi. Ophelia, 2008
image:
undr:
Louis Stettner
Avenue de Chatillon, 14th Arrond., Paris, ca. 1949

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

I’m haunted by all the space

http://27.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lf8kxpm6TB1qdfb8co1_500.png

Spinning like a ghost
on the bottom of a
top,
I’m haunted by all
the space that I
will live without
you.

Richard Brautigan, "Boo, Forever"
image here: anhelos via vintague

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

I knew them once

http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lj75v0TnL51qcbeylo1_500.jpg
I’ve forgotten the words with which to tell you. I knew them once, but I’ve forgotten them, and now I’m talking to you without them.
Marguerite Duras, Emilie L.



text: proustitute:
image: anhelos

I’m haunted by all the space

http://27.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lf8kxpm6TB1qdfb8co1_500.png

Spinning like a ghost
on the bottom of a
top,
I’m haunted by all
the space that I
will live without
you.

Richard Brautigan, "Boo, Forever"
image here: anhelos via vintague

Thursday, April 14, 2011

I can well understand why children love sand.

http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lhabsrQ79Q1qa793ho1_500.jpg
 http://26.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_ljmte2zCzI1qzbcgoo1_500.png


Epigraphs to David Markson’s Wittgenstein’s Mistress
text via the amazing: invisiblestories
 image:here

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

our partial belief



I do not believe in ghosts unless I see them. I forget them. When I read, I need to find the necessary volume for the space. Books in quantity manifest our partial belief that nothing in the world passes away. Nothing has disappeared. We apprehend very little. Ghosts emerge in our peripheral vision. Today (meaningless) I could not see anybody.

from The Library Inferno, by Martin Corless-Smith

text here:
image~ here(via booklover)

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

It is there


 
…All the same, without being morbid, and giving way to - to memories and so on, I must confess that there does seem to me something sad in life. It is hard to say what it is. I don’t mean the sorrow that we all know, like illness and poverty and death. No, it is something different. It is there, deep down, deep down, part of one, like one’s breathing. However hard I work and tire myself I have only to stop to know it is there, waiting. I often wonder if everybody feels the same. One can never know. But isn’t it extraordinary that under his sweet, joyful little singing it was this - sadness? - Ah, what is it? - that I heard.
The Canary, Katherine Mansfield (via brrrig)(via katherine-mansfield)


laura makabresku photographer.
here

Monday, April 11, 2011

Your first parent was a star

http://d30opm7hsgivgh.cloudfront.net/upload/9461882_qmDuLpTJ_c.jpg 
 
“What is it that you contain? The dead. Time. Light patterns of millennia opening in your gut. Every minute, in each of you, a few million potassium atoms succumb to radioactive decay. The energy that powers these tiny atomic events has been locked inside potassium atoms ever since a star-sized bomb exploded nothing into being. Potassium, like uranium and radium, is a long-lived radioactive nuclear waste of the supernova bang that accounts for you.

Your first parent was a star.”

—Jeanette Winterson
text via:  Whiskey River
image :here

Sunday, April 10, 2011

there’s always doubt

“Everything stated or expressed by man is a note in the margin of a completely
 erased text. From what’s in the note we can extract the gist of what must have
 been in the text, but there’s always doubt, and the possible meanings are m
any.
- Book of Disquiet, Fernando Pessoa
seurat's sketchbooks

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

the terrestrial sphere


text: Queneau (invisiblestoriesvia Frenchtwist)
image: Paul den Hollander from Moments in Time, 1972-79. Thank you, aperfectcommotion.