2025 in 99 books.

Regardez-moi bien! Je suis idiot, je suis un farceur, je suis un fumiste. Regardez-moi bien! Je suis laid, mon visage n’a pas d’expression, je suis petit. Je suis comme vous tous!’

— Tristan Tzara, February 1920 at the Universite ́Populaire de Faubourg Saint-Antoine

99 bottles of books et al.

The ones staggered with marginalia, ordered alphabetically — acknowledging that I finally gave up on providing links to all of them, but promising to do so “eventually,” as they say — acknowledging that I did not get to add much of the poetry I adored but promising to do so in the New Year, as they say, or in a few weeks — admitting that 99 was the numerical cut-off I set for myself in order to finish others and prevent the list from growing too noisy — acknowledging that noisy is my middle name — acknowledging, too, that asterisks mark the texts I continue to sleep with.

O! Pray for me, saints. Mais
oui, dance with me, demons.

A. G. Valentine, The Apoptotic Era (Thirty West Publishing House)

A. S. Hamrah, Last Week in End Times Cinema (Semiotext(e) / Active Agents)

Aaron Schuster, How to Research Like a Dog: Kafka’s New Science (MIT Press)

Alvin Lu, Daydreamers (FC2)

Amit Chauhari, Incompleteness: New and Selected Essays, 1999 - 2023 (NYRB)

Anaïs Duplan, I Need Music (Action Books)

Anna Moschovakis, An Earthquake Is a Shaking of the Surface of the Earth (Soft Skull Press)

Anne Berest & Claire Berest, Gabriële trans. by Tina Kover (Europa Editions) *

Antonio Di Benedetto, The Suicides trans. by Esther Allen (NYRB Classics)

Ben Libman, The Third Solitude: A Memoir Against History (Dundurn Press)

Ben Peek, The Red Labyrinth (Snuggly Books)

Bill Peel, Against Ambition (Repeater Books)

Bruno Dario, Lantana, or The Indissoluble Exhalation trans. by Kit Schluter (Ugly Ducking Press)

César Aira, The Famous Magician trans. by Chris Andrews (New Directions)

Christian Lehnert, Wickerwork, trans. by Richard Sieburth (Archipelago Books)

Claire Bateman, The Pillow Museum (FC2)

Claire Bishop, Disordered Attention: How We Look at Art and Performance Today (Verso)

Clark Coolidge &Tom Clark, Rock Notes (Lithic Press)

Conner Bouchard-Roberts, A Field Guide for Wandering 9th edition (Winter Texts)

Dan Elkind, Dr Chizhevsky’s Chandelier: The Decline of the USSR and Other Heresies of the Twentieth Century (Repeater Books)

Dan Sinykin and Johanna Winant, eds. Close Reading for the Twenty-First Century (Princeton University Press)

Daniel A. Hoyt, Shit List (Whiskey Tit)

Dao Strom, Yellow Songs 4: Motherwound (The 3rd Thing)

David Biespiel, The Education of a Young Poet (Counterpoint Press)

David Collard, A Crumpled Swan: Fifty Essays about Abigail Parry's 'In the Dream of the Cold Restaurant' (Sagging Meniscus Press)

David Dark, Everyday Apocalypse: Art, Empire, and the End of the World (Vanderbilt Press)

Deborah Thomas, Exorbitance: A Speculative Ethnography of Inheritance (Duke University Press)

Dodie Bellamy, Cunt Norton (Tender Buttons Press)

Dorothea Lasky, Memory (Semiotext(e) / Native Agents)

Emily Skillings, Tantrums in Air (The Song Cave)

Erin Dorney, Yes I Am Human I Know You Were Wondering (Auto Focus Books)

Fatima Bhutto & Sonia Faleiro, eds. Gaza: The Story of a Genocide (Verso)

Federica Marzi, My Home Somewhere Else trans. by Jim Hicks (Sandorf Passage)

Garielle Lutz, Backwardness: From Letters and Notebooks, 1973–2023 (Calamari Archive)

George Seferis, Book of Exercises II trans. by Jennifer Kellogg (World Poetry)

Gerhard Rühm, The Folded Clock: 100 Number Poems trans. by Alexander Booth (Twisted Spoon Press)

Grace Byron, Herucline (Simon & Schuster)

Hans Blumenberg, The Readability of the World trans. by Robert Savage & David Roberts (Cornell Univeristy Press)

Hayim Nahman Bialik, On the Slaughter trans. by Peter Cole (NYRB Poets)

Héctor Abad, Aside from My Heart, All is Well, trans. by Anne McLean (Archipelago Books)

Helen DeWitt & Ilya Gridneff, Your Name Here (Dalkey Archive Press)

Ian Penman, Erik Satie: Three Piece Suite (Semiotext(e)

Inès Cagnati, Crazy Genie trans. by Liesl Schillinger (NYRB Classics)

Jacob Wren, Dry Your Tears to Perfect Your Aim (Book*Hug Press)

Jarrod Shanahan, Every Fire Needs a Little Bit of Help: A Decade of Rebellion, Reaction, and Morbid Symptoms (PM Press)

Jean D’Amérique, Workshop of Silence: Poems trans. by Conor Bracken (Vanderbilt Press)

Jeff Alesandrelli, And Yet: A Novel About Sex and Shyness and Society (Future Tense Books)

Joanna Pocock, Greyhound: A Memoir (Soft Skull Press)

Joanna Walsh, Amateurs!: How We Built Internet Culture and Why it Matters (Verso)

Jonathan Howard, Inhabitants of the Deep: The Blueness of Blackness (Duke University Press)

Jules Laforgue, Moral Tales trans. by William Jay Smith (New Directions)

Julie Carr, The Garden (Essay Press)

Julio Cortázar, A Certain Lucas trans. by Gregory Rabassa (New Directions)

Justin Perez, Queer Emergent: Scandalous Stories from the Twilight of AIDS in Peru (Duke University Press)

Kate Colby, Paradoxx (Essay Press)

Katrina Roberts, ed. Because You Asked (Lost Horse Press)

Katrine Øgaard Jensen, Ancient Algorithms (Sarabande Books)

Kim Farrar, The Impossible Physics of the Hummingbird (Unsolicited Press)

Krisztina Tóth, Eye of the Monkey: A Novel trans. by Ottilie Mulzet (Seven Stories Press)

Lauren Cook, Sex Goblin (Nightboat Books)

Leopoldina Fortunati, The Arcana of Reproduction: Housewives, Prostitutes, Workers and Capital (Verso)

Logan Berry, Doom is the House Without a Door (Inside the Castle)

Liliana Corobca, Too Great A Sky: A Novel trans. by Monica Cure (Seven Stories Press)

Lisa Olstein, Distinguished Office of Echoes (Copper Canyon Press)

Lucy Sante, Six Sermons for Bob Dylan (Tenement Press)

Macedonio Fernández, The Complete Poems of Macedonio Fernández trans. by Jessica Sequeira (Sublunary Editions)

Marguerite Duras, Six Films trans. by Olivia Baes and Emma Ramadan (The MIT Press)

Maša Kolanović, Underground Barbie trans. by Ena Selimović (Sandorf Passage)

Markus Werner, The Frog in the Throat trans. by Michael Hofmann (NYRB Classics)

McKenzie Wark, Love and Money, Sex and Death: A Memoir (Verso Books)

Morten Høi Jensen, The Master of Contradictions: Thomas Mann and the Making of "The Magic Mountain" (Yale University Press)

Nazareth Hassan, Slow Mania (Future Poems)

Nebojša Lujanović, Cloud the Color of Skin trans. by Ena Selimović (Fraktura)

Oke Fijal, Marina Gržinić, Sen Reyes and Melina Vesely, Sexual Dissidences: Frau Diamanda’s Catalan Scenes, the Travesti Politics of Resistance, and Anti-canonical Knowledge (Sternberg Press)

Olga Ravn, The Wax Child trans. by Martin Aitken (New Directions)

Omar Sakr & Safdar Ahmed, The Nightmare Sequence (Nightboat Books)

Orchid Tierney, this abattoir is a college (Calamari Archive)

Paul Valéry, Monsieur Teste trans. by Charlotte Mandell (NYRB Classics)

Peter Weiss, The Aesthetics of Resistance: Volume III trans. by Joel Bloom (Duke University Press)

Pierre Guyotat, Idiocy trans. by Peter Behrman de Sinéty (NYRB Classics)

Rainer Maria Rilke, The Testament trans. by Mark Kanak, ed. by Rainer J. Hanshe (Contra Mundum Press)

Robert Gluck, Jack the Modernist (NYRB Classics)

Roger Shattuck, The Forbidden Experiment: The Story of the Wild Boy of Aveyron (NYRB Classics)

Ronald M. Schernikau, SMALLTOWNNOVELLA trans. by Lucy Jones (Ugly Duckling Presse)

Ryan Ruby, Context Collapse: A Poem Containing a History of Poetry (Seven Stories Press)

Sam Kunkel and Jessica Gossling, eds. The Decadent Bestiary (MIT Press)

Shane Kowalski, Are There People Out There (Future Tense Press)

Shira Dentz, Sisyphusina (Astrophil Press)

Sigfried Kracauer, Ginster: Written By Himself trans. by Carl Skoggard (NYRB Classics) *

Srikanth Reddy, The Unsignificant: Three Talks on Poetry and Pictures (Wave Books)

Stephanie Wambagu, Lonely Crowds (Little Brown)

Stephen Rodefer, Four Lectures (NYRB Poets)

Thomas Walton, Unsavory Thoughts (Sagging Meniscus Press)

Todd Macgowan, Embracing Alienation: Why We Shouldn’t Try to Find Ourselves (Repeater Books)

Victor Serge, A Blaze in a Desert: Selected Poems, trans. by James Brook (PM Press) *

Vigdis Hjorth — three of them (hoping to finish edits on this draft essay that has gained the girth of a novella due to my recklessness in thinking and writing yes please knock on all yr woods for me)

Viktor Shklovsky, Zoo, or Letters Not About Love trans. by Richard Seldon (Dalkey Archive Press)

Witold Wirpsza, Apotheosis of Music trans. by Frank L. Vigoda (World Poetry)

Yoko Tawada, Exophony (New Directions)

Zuzana Brabcová, Ceilings trans. by Tereza Novická (Twisted Spoon Press)

[It will take one more list to finish off my brain in the past year, so please count on it next month…]

An open letter.

If the Marne throws itself in the Seine
it’s because I won the Marne
If there’s wine in Champagne
it’s because I pissed there

I threw my gun in the air
but the bullets spit in my face
that’ show I was decorated
Vive la republique

— Benjamin Péret, “Hymn of the Patriotic Old Soldier”

Natalia Sedova, Leon Trotsky and Lev Sedov

1. An open letter

A few excerpts from the 1947 “Open Letter to the International Communist Party, French Section of the Fourth International,” signed by Natalia Sedova-Trotsky, Benjamin Peret, and G. Munis:

The world labor movement ought to have triumphed over the old capitalist world and the Russian counter-revolution during the imperialist war or immediately afterward. The war was simultan­eously a result of the crisis of the world labor movement and the opportunity for its recovery and definitive victory. The ideolog­ical causes of the crisis and with them the organizations respon­sible for it should have been destroyed. But a reverse phenomenon has been produced. The organizations which caused and heightened the crisis have increased their organic power over the working class, binding it more strongly than before to the general system of the world counter-revolution. We, on the other hand, have nowhere attained the organic force, the ideological authority and the combative prestige which give a revolutionary party its qual­ ification as such. This result cannot be in any way accidental and still less a product of the objective circumstances. The crisis of the world labor movement acquired official status in 1914, when the Second International deserted to the capitalist camp. The Russian Revolution, in 1917 vigorously started the re­cuperation. But shortly afterward the Stalinist Thermidor arrived to add its own factors of ideological crisis to the old reformist factor. Since then Stalinism has been continually deepening its degeneration, getting prestige from the country of the revolution and money and stringent orders from the caste which has destroyed that same revolution. The social-democratic desertion was serious, very serious, and costly to the proletariat, but the intransigence of the Bolsheviks diminished its importance and the triumph of the Russian proletariat doomed it to a certain and early defeat. By turning against tho Russian Revolution and chaining to itself the Third International, the Stalinist Thermidor coincided with the social-democratic desertion, obstructed the complete recuperation of the workers movement and immediately itself deepened the crisis.

[…]

With deep distress, because the world leadership is a part of our organization, a part of ourselves, we cannot refrain from saying that the International Secretariat failed in its most ele­mental duties by not bringing up for discussion on the day follow­ ing its constitution the question of whether the “unconditional defense of the USSR” continued to be favorable to the world revolu­ tion or whether it seemed incompatible with it in the light of the tremendous supervening events.

[…]

Without doing anything here besides making assertions, we repeat, we declare to you, comrades of the French party, comrades of the International, that the “unconditional de­fense of the USSR” has revealed itself to be incompatible with the defense of the world revolution. Abandonment of the defense of Russia is of utmost urgency because it is fettering all of our movements, blunting our theoretical progress and giving us in the eyes of the masses a stalinoid physiognomy. It is impossible to defend Russia and the world revolution at the same time. Either one or the other. We pronounce ourselves for the world revolution, against the defense of Russia, and we ask you to pronounce your­selves in the same way. Be careful, above all, of those tendencies which hide their opportunism towards the imperialist war and the present situation by boasting about their fidelity to the program of the Fourth International on the Russian question! A fidelity of this kind is a destructive fidelity, similar to that of the “old Bolsheviks” in 1917 in respect to the old theory, completely bol­shevik of the democratic dictatorship of the proletariat and peasantry toward which Lenin appeared as a revisionist. . . . . In order to be faithful to the revolutionary tradition of the Fourth International, we must abandon the Trotskyist theory of the defense of the USSR; we shall thus bring about in the International an ideological revolution indispensable for the success of the world revolution.

[…]

Stalinism is today a thousand times more dangerous for the revolution because it represents the ideas and interests of a tri­umphant counter-revolution in Russia which offers the world and more immediately Europe, its experience, its power and its partic­ular solution against the proletariat on the march toward social­ism. The Stalinist parties are today mere representatives and disciples of the counter-revolution installed in the Kremlin . . . The slogans of united front and government of the workers’ leaders constituted in Russia a whole at once inseparable from and derived from the forms of proletarian democracy existing in the soviets, which — this is of the utmost importance — were created and main­ tained with the collaboration of Mensheviks and revolutionary so­cialists, Stalinism is today absolutely incompatible with any proletarian democracy. Wherever organs of revolutionary power
have emerged, from Spain to Warsaw, Paris and Milan, it has hast­ened to destroy them. Stalinism cannot allow the revolutionaries to speak.

[…]

To sum up, the slogan of a CP-SP-CGT government such as has been used in France, the call for a Stalinist-reformist government, in general, is today entirely false and will serve only to hold back the masses where they are, and also — it is painful but nec­essary to say it —- develop the new potentially reformist tenden­cies existing in the Fourth International. We cannot refrain from telling you, comrades of the International Communist Party of France, that the crisis of your party in particular and that of the Inter­ nation in general will not be solved positively by supporting the Frank faction against the Craipeau faction, but rather by support­ing the two factions which are against the defense of Russia and against the slogan of a CP-SP-CGT government. Fidelity to Trotsky­ism is not fidelity to the written word, but to the revolutionary spirit of Trotskyism. Between the two factions which today appear the strongest in France, the least bad will be that which offers the party a more democratic regime allowing it to carry out the political changes indispensable today through the widest and most democratic discussion.

[…]

Fidelity to Trotskyism is the firm, sincere, and courageous rectification of some of the assertions it made yesterday. The revolution also is revolution­ary; it requires shifts, modifications and radical negations of its own former assertions. Yes, the revolution is also revolutionary!

---

2. The rifts “sur” “realisme”

Many friendships were broken by Surrealism.

I quote: “Yves Tanguy severed ties with singer Jacques Prévert (whom he had met in the navy), and writers Raymond Queneau and Georges Duhamel for it. This did give him a decent career as a Surrealist, and Surrealism undoubtedly allowed Tanguy to penetrate the core of his art. Tanguy, a painter of portraits, animals and landscapes in gouache and other techniques, was never abstract, according to one of his contemporaries; everything he painted, was observed; his paintings are landscapes of the soul. Not only did he discard his friends, he also destroyed much of his pre-Surrealist work. Although he co-signed many of the Surrealist manifestos and followed the politics of leader André Breton, he remained nearly invisible within the group, an outsider who chose to follow his own path and finally departed to America in 1939.”

Speaking of Jacques Prevert, Benjamin Peret dedicated the following poem to him; the translation is by Marylin Kallet.

MY HAND IN THE BEER

To Jacques Prévert

The hanged man is a pirate
who had teeth
who had bones
with water inside

Then he ran like a serpent
his mustache drooped
his tongue climbed up on his eye
Then the grasshoppers and the onions
bananas and necklaces
left his pocket one by one
Happiness Happiness they said
his mouth is the sister of my mouth
and it feels good to walk in the street of She-Asses

Tanguy made 15 pen drawings for his press partner, Benjamin Péret, in 1927. One of those poems (see below) has been a comfort to me in recent weeks.

To remember my ribbon of honor
I’ve painted my nose red
and put parsley up my nostrils
for the Military Cross

— Benjamin Péret, “Hymn of the Patriotic Old Soldier”

*
André Breton, Max Morise, Jeannette Ducrocq Tanguy, Pierre Naville, Benjamin Péret, Yves Tanguy, Jacques Prévert, Cadavre Exquis with Figure c. 1927
Benjamin Péret, Letterhead from 1920’s (MOMA)
Benjamin Péret, “Dormir, dormir dans les pierres : poème” (KB Nationale Biblioteek)
Cahiers des amis Panait Istrati, 14 May 1979
”Expansive Poetics: Benjamin Peret” (The Allen Ginsberg Project)
Grandizo Munis (Marxist’s Internet Archive)
Grandizo Munis and Benjamin Peret, “The Unions Against Revolution”
”Nathalia Sedova” (Spartacus International)
Rachmaninov, Elegie, Op. 3 No. 1
Rachmaninov, By the Grave, Op. 21 No. 2
Socialist Workers Party, Internal Bulletin Vol. X, No. 1, February 1948

André Breton, Max Morise, Jeannette Ducrocq Tanguy, Pierre Naville, Benjamin Péret, Yves Tanguy, Jacques Prévert, Cadavre Exquis with Figure c. 1927 (Source: MOMA)

"The silence of the state"

Yes I miss the kiss of treachery

— The Cure, “Disintegration”

Then the cock crowed
This morning
They dared to murder you.

In the fortress of our bodies 
May our ideal live on
Mingled with your blood
So that tomorrow they won’t dare,
They won't dare to murder us.

— Poem enclosed in Fernand’s unfinished letter to Helène

For betraying his “patria” and abandoning his role as a French soldier, Pierre Guyotat served out his prison term in solitary confinement during the Algerian war. His description of that experience is calm, untrammeled by affect. I recalled it while reading another book this week.

I don’t know where to start.

The poem I cited was culled from the ending of Joseph Andras’ book, where it is preceded by the following passage:

Helène folds the letter in half. Then in four. Anonymous. Only a postscript, in which she learns that the author of this poem, written in memory of Fernand, is a European-Algerian woman, a militant for independence sentenced to five years in prison.

I realize this offers little context— only the curve of what we like to call an ending. So I will try again, and open a different fold from a part of the story with fewer masks. A part that begins in a small French village, where a French Algerian who has come there to recuperate from a lung infection. Amid this efflorescence of chickens and birds and flowers, Fernand Iveton meets Hélène Ksiazeka, a single mother from Poland whose mother runs the boarding-house. The two exchange greetings; her eyes catch the light like “little frosted pearls.” His eyes follow her to the door.

Something begins.

He swallows a blue pill, a pill. . .

“the kind of wolf-dog blue which rummages around your heart, never asking for permission or wiping its feet on the doormat—- for this blue would not fail to make a doormat out of you, one day, if it could ever come to blame or love you. He had used indecision as an excuse, at a meal last week (the choice was caramel-cider tartlet or strawberry crème brûlée), to incite their first exchange. She was partial to caramel and asked him where his accent was from: from Algeria, ma'am, it's my first time in France, well, yes, they say Algeria's in France, sure, but still it's not the same, you have to admit that . . .”

They sit together in a restaurant.

“Hélène is wearing a light gray dress with a white collar; Fernand, for his part, has taken this opportunity to bring out the only tie in his possession.”

Two menus before them. And something begins— again.

Yet here she is now, in front of him, noticeably more at ease than he is. He could touch her if he reached out, but this very idea is, already, sacrilegious. And is he even thinking of touching her? Bodies are seldom thought of when this thing is born in the belly's depths. This unnamed thing no word can approximate or identify, this thing (the most appropriate term, in the end, for those first times out of time). A vague, crazy thing of vapors, fumaroles, ether, routing every attempt at rationality. A thing we know to be soaked in illusions, fineries, gildings and sands of an instant, but which we fasten onto and give it everything headlong, that thing, yes.

Fernand looks at her as others might contemplate a statue or a painting: he lacks the linguistic precision to formalize his thoughts, but he looks at the contours and shadows of her skin, the reflections, the more or less visible pores, the hands (it all seeme to concentrate on this point — thou hands, that gilt or slap, that one might hold or that pull away, the hands of woman loved, or desired, bear the same heartrending charge, the same sacred fever, as the mouth which one day, without warning, will draw near or withhold itself forever), that foreign smile and those eyes that a had poet would promptly compare to the sea without fearing to offend her (Helène is not for commonplaces, doggerel).

He doesn't know much about her, but what he knows is ample enough.

No need to ballast a beating heart.

She has a passion for dance, she tells him. She got that from her father. . .

Some things begin as others continue, and they meet in the spaces that have never imagined the other, or made provisions to accommodate the emergence of new things.

There is the FLN, the death of a dear friend, the sense of “History” asking Fernand to act in a way that pushes the French CP out of its complacency on the Algerian cause.

He tries to plant a bomb in an abandoned shed. Someone betrays him.

The bomb is defused and the man who has become Helène’s husband is arrested.

He is told, in his cell, that he will be tried in a military court. The trial is in four days. Attempt to destroy, with an explosive substance, a building that is inhabited or used for habitation. The officer reads out the charges without looking up. He has fat cheeks and bad skin. Fernand is sitting on an iron bench, his feet still in chains. Articles 434 and 435 of the Penal Code. Risk of incurring maximum penalty. In other words—he specifies, as if it needed to be any clearer - death. Fernand is surprised not to find himself blinking at the sound of the word. Torture must've fried my brain, he thinks. Since yesterday, a nerve has been throbbing continually near the bicep in his right arm. The communist leadership, the other continues, refuses to get involved: the Party hasn't sent a lawyer. They are wary of that troublemaker Iveton: isn't he an anarchist, anyway?

Smells like sulfur, like bombs rolled under Tsarist carriages, explosives chucked in parliament or at a barracks, the pennants black and proud . . .

There are memories that replay in the mind of the man who is now incarcerated, cut off from contact with his friends and family, held in an undisclosed location, tortured according to the orders of a modern democracy.

These memories are events in themselves: they are what life becomes to the man who can no longer describe his relationship to it.

What does Fernand dare to imagine of his future?

He believes he will be exonerated. What is happening cannot be possible. He is living a bad dream that will soon end.

Immobilized, he brings other dreams into dialogue with the gray banality of the nightmare.

A man dreams to keep his grip on the existence that is left.

What are you reading? Ah, soccer again! Fernand demurs: there's L'Humanite right there, at the foot of the bed. I don't know if that's much better. She laughs. Then Fernand asks himself if he prefers her laughing, like this, head thrown back to leave her throat exposed, yet not offering it, either: a playful swan, a fair ribbon of spring, with those small white stubs beating their wings and that high-pitched trill, thin and frail (Fernand is getting lost). Or perhaps he prefers her serious, severe, as she often is, the wrinkle between her two eyebrows more pronounced, a delicate furrow, and that tragic look, a Slavic stare straight out of Dostoevsky (or at least that's the image that comes to his mind, again; he gave up on Crime and Punishment after the third chapter. He only remembers one sentence, very beautiful really, he had thought to himself: the hero's mother, the one whose name is impossible to remember, had written her son a letter that ended with I kiss you with a thousand thou-sund kisses, yours until the grave—that's lovely, that is, he told himself). Dumb question. There is no need to choose, he loves her both cheerful and serious: two colors of the same future.

There are welts on his chest, his arms, his legs. The prison cell is cold. The men in uniform flaunt their power and status.

Hélene. . . A name like an itch. A wound in the roof of his mouth that he cannot forget.

He thinks of her every day. He cannot keep from doing it. Cannot keep from picking up the scattered pieces of their story, as if he had to put them in order between these walls, give them a meaning in this gray shithole, bulb on the ceiling, bunk stained by former inmates, one toilet between three. Give them a direction, a solid outline, thick, drawn in chalk or charcoal. Three and a half years together: one with the other, one through and for the other. Fernand collects whatever pieces his memory more or less readily restores to him, to form a brick—a cinder-block of love alone capable, in the face of an uncertain future, to break the bones and jaws of his tormentors.

Helene. Her blonde hair, the wonder of the neighborhood. . .

There is an attorney who attempts to defend Fernand as a French citizen, or one who should benefit from the rights accorded to citizens.

Civilization puffs its chest, brandishing rod and tag Marianne trades in her tricolor nights-swapping pennies for chimeras.

There are moments thick with official symbols of justice, as when the state commissioner declares that whatever Fernand's intentions may have been, whether “to kill or not to kill innocent people—- the crime remains the same.”

The medical report is read out: the accused has "superficial scars on his tor and his limbs" but, due to their age, "the exact cause of all these marks is impossible to ascertain." Fernand asks to speak, permission is refused, and the commissioner continues; in the name of those little children who were sacrificed in cafés, it is important to punish criminals. Solemn, and with History ensconced on the tip of his tongue, he concludes: “You must also think of France, whose prestige and influence in the world are blemished by these monstrous acts.” The death penalty is therefore, in his view, required.

The momentum is built into the ticking of modern time.

Smadja protests against the little time— and that's an understatement, your honors!— the court lawyers had to prepare their client's defense, The pernicious atmosphere, he continues, this cold atmosphere, drunk on resentment and fury, is not conducive to a proper review of the cases we must judge Iveton not for attacks committed by others but for his personal actions, and those alone.

Is Fernand alone? He calls his loved ones into their absences, and holds them close.

There is Fernand’s friend and comrade, Henri, who was killed by French soldiers for his role in Algerian resistance.

I am not Muslim, Henri had written shortly before, but I am a European Algerian. I consider Algeria to be my country. I must fulfill toward it the same duties as all of its sons. As soon as the Algerian people rose up to free their land from under the colonial yoke, I knew my place was alongside those engaged in the fight for liberation. The colonial press shouts treason, while at the same time it publishes and endorses the separatist calls of Boyer and Banse. It also cried treason when, under Vichy, French officers joined the Resistance, while it was serving Hitler and fascism. In truth. the traitors to France are those who, to serve their own selfish interests, pervert in the eyes of Algerians the true face of France and of its people, whose traditions are generous, revolutionary, and anticolonial. What's more, every progressive man in France and in the world recognizes the legitimacy and justice of our national claims. The Algerian people long thwarted and humiliated, have taken their resolute place in the great historic movement of colonial liberation, movement which has set Africa and Asia ablaze. Its victory is certain. And this is not, as the biggest owners of wealth this country would have us believe, a racial conflict. . .

Henri Maillot’s desertion stunned France. He was known to be a sweetheart, a laid-back and generous fellow who identified with France, a man who risked his life to fight for his country. He was “a pied-noir member of the Algerian Communist Party and participated in the Algerian War.” He was a French soldier who “deserted” his military unit in 1956, and crossed the lines of loyalty, carrying a critical stash of funs and ammo to the Algerian opposition. He was a “traitor.” He was a man who died for a country that did not exist.

— And who was Henri Mariaini?

There are other letters that bleed through Fernand’s memories.

For you my love, he writes at the bottom of the letter he just finished.

— And who or what is History?

Helène will fold the letter in half. Then in four. “Anonymous.” “Only a postscript —”

Fernand will stare at the pasta and beef on his prison tray, just as he does every Sunday. Lukewarm. Its sauce “uncertain”.

He is reading Victor Hugo — again. This French novel is his companion, his friend, his surreal mirror.

Fernand bolts the meal, eager to return to his reading. Jean Valjean was not dead. When he fell into the sea, or rather when he threw himself into it, he was not ironed, as we have seen. He swam under water until he reached a vessel at anchor, to which a boat was moored. He found means of hiding himself in this boat until night. At night he swam off again, and reached the shore a little way from Cape Brun... Two bombs tear into the afternoon in the Algiers stadiums of El-Biar and Ruisseau. Ten dead, thirty or so injured, blood everywhere, wounds and mutilations. Two random passersby, unlucky enough to be Arabs, were lynched by an angry mob. Night slips over the city, a thick veil of silent mourning. Jean Valjean watches Cosette as she sleeps, feeds her, protects her, teaches her to read. He has come to see the world and mankind differently since loving Cosette. Fernand bids his two companions good-night. His tired eyes have trouble following the slack, wavering lines, but he means to keep on reading. Just a little more. Two or three pages. Jean Valjean knew no more where he was going than did Cosette. He trusted in God, as she trusted in him. It seemed as though he was also clinging to the hand of some one greater than himself; he thought he felt a being leading him, though invisible. However, he had no settled idea, no plan, no project. He was not even absolutely sure that it was Javert, and then it might have been Javert, without Javert knowing that he was Jean Valjean. Was not he disguised? Was not he believed to be dead? His eyelids won't stay open. He puts the work down after bookmarking his page with a canteen coupon, then turns on his side, in the fetal position, since he never could (and always wondered how others did) fall asleep on his back, flat out, staring at the ceiling. He sinks after a few minutes, without even realizing it. And suddenly noise, lights. The adverb, in truth, does little more than conceal the confusion that seizes Fernand: he opens his eyes, not sure where he is, what time is it, what's all this noise, is he dreaming or what? He turns his head, what time is it, I was sleeping, guards, guards, shit, what's all this noise? Guards are standing over him, sure enough, against the light of a white guards, guards, shit, what's all this noise? Guards are standing over him, sure enough, against the light of a white bulb. They tell him to get up immediately. Fernand does not understand. Abdelaziz is up, frowning: he understands everything. This way, Iveton. Your pardon was denied. Get up, now. Fernand complies. Stunned. Astounded. The brain still heavy with sleep. He is in his underwear and asks to put his pants on: one of the guards refuses, curtly. He is pushed. On the threshold he turns around and looks at Achouar and Abdelaziz. The first seems lost, haggard, perhaps even more so than Fernand; the second is grave, immovable, an ancient statue: his black eyes have severed at a stroke the fumes of sleep. Those sharp black eyes, beyond doubt, compel the convict to open his own, for good, this time. Brothers... says Fernand, but a hand is instantly clapped over his mouth, yanks him backwards. Panicking, Achouar asks what's going on; Abdelaziz does not answer. He is looking at the ceiling, lying down on his bunk. Fernand is hustled through the corridor. Dawn stirs, shakes its yellow folds. It is almost five. Headlights outside, the sound of a moving gate, of vehicles... The prisoners of Rarberousse sense that something unusual is afoot. As he makes his way, Fernand slowly begins, from scattered fragments, to piece it all together. Coty, Mitterrand, and the rest denied his pardon, his head will fall. He thinks of Helene. Of Henri. Stand tall, like them. He hollers into the passageways. Tahia El Diazair (Long Live Algeria)! Once. He hollers so as not to collapse or cry. A second tame. Tahia El Djazair. A guard tells him to shut it and holds a baton to his waist. Voices answer him already, voices which understand it all.

There is a moment when he is asked to speak. His death stands before him. The words a man is asked to deliver as he is forced to let go of the world. Last words, we call them.

“The life of a man, my life, matters little. What matters is Algeria, its future. And tomorrow Algeria will be free. I am convinced that the friendship between the French and the Algerians will be mended." That is all. The registrar thanks him. He is given a pair of pants and canvas shoes. He is putting them on when two Arab men enter, escorted by a few guards. Mohamed Lakhnèche, also known as Ali Chaflala, and Mohamed Ouenouri, alias P'tit Maroc. Fernand realizes that they are to be executed with him. The prisoners are hitting the walls of their cells with metal bowls and spoons. The prison's lungs fill up, inhale, exhale. In the surrounding streets, women are now shouting from their windows, supporting the combatants. Ululations, patriotic chants, and nachids. ينادينا للاستقلال، لالات Sit e e e se تضحيتنا للوطن خير من الحياة t looms proudly on the cement foor. There is the slanted blade, odious, there is the hole, round hole, perfectly أضحي بحياتي وبمالي عليك oa oa overflow and saturate the area. Smadja, Laînné and Father Declercq are present. They were waiting. Fernand is surprised to see them— he does not know, in fact, that his lawyers were told the previous afternoon, by telephone. The air is not cold; it is even rather mild. يابلادي يا بلادي، أنا لالأي وa ia ia

Someone embraces Fernand and tries to console him.

Be strong, he whispers, it's because of public opinion. You are French, you placed a bomb somewhere, to them that's unforgivable: you are to die because of public opinion. Fernand's stomach feels as if it is being lacerated, clawed, pierced by a thousand lead pellets. Fernand's stomach feels as if it is being lacerated, clawed, pierced by a thousand lead pellets. قد سلا الدنيا فؤادي وتفانلي لي Fernand repeats it three times, public opinion public opinion public opinion. He finds it hard to breathe. The Casbah calls the sky to itself in screams and ululations, an unbroken thread of sound. He is brought to the executioner, who wears a hood. Fernand does not know that this masked man, nicknamed "Monsieur d'Alger," is also called Fernand. The executioner, hearing the convict's name uttered by the chaplain, catches himself flinching. As if death were finally embodied— after all the heads he's dispatched with a most professional hand—in the sound of a first name which returns him, brutally, to their common humanity.

The tick tick tick sound carried across an entire paragraph in the beginning of the book returns at this point— even though Andras doesn’t record it. I hear the tick tick tick as Fernand walks to his death. It is unbearable to me— like a wail buried inside the propulsive rhythm, my only desire is to freeze the frame, to stop this march forward, to silence the machinery of the state’s violence and plead, argue, nothing nothing — the tick doesn’t stop.

Declereq asks him whether he requires the succor of religion; Fernand looks at him, tries to smile, fails, and answers no... no ... freethinker... his hands behind his back. I am going to die, he murmurs, but Algeria will be independent... Fernand goes first: custom dictates that the least "guilty" convict opens the proceedings, so that he need not witness others being put to death. His two lawyers withdraw to one of the corridors leading off the yard. Laînné kneels, bows his head, joins his hands together toward his Lord. Smadja stands, in tears, forehead against the wall. They do not want to look, they cannot. It is 05:10 when the head of Fernand Iveton, prisoner number 6101, thirty years old.

Two days after Iveton was guillotined, his lawyer, Albert Smadja, was arrested by French police and taken to the Lodi internment camp set up to “silence those who may denounce the repression, gel in contact with arrested militants, support their families and friends, or hamper the prosecution during their trials,” as described by Nathalie Funes. Two years later, at the end of 1958, Smadja was released from the camp.

In March of 1958, Jean-Paul Sartre published a text to the memory of Iveton in Les Temps modernes. By this point, the existentialist thinking that had driven the Resistance gained more adherents. Waiting around for consensus before taking action smacked of the bourgeouis reformism that had hampered anti-fascist groups. The Algerian cause led to a pronounced shift in how some revolutionists related to the Party. Like most political parties, the French CP groomed and limited the sort of action that could be undertaken in the struggle against French colonialism. Existentialism combined with an emphasis on praxis as fuel for concerted direct action campaigns.

Pierre Guyotat in conversation with Noura Wedell.

In the afterword to his novel, Andras acknowledges his collaborators. The book would not exist without the investigative work of Jean-Luc Einaudi. “He has left us, but I thank him here,” says Andras of the man who “reported that throughout his investigation he was met with nothing but ‘the silence of the State.’”

What happened to Iveton’s loved ones and comrades?

André Abbou, author of Albert Camus, entre les lignes,' claims that the novelist "intervened" to try to save him.' The Guerroudi couple was pardoned by de Gaulle— Jacqueline died in Algiers at the age of ninety-five (a few weeks before the start of the writing of this book). Hélène Iveton and Fernand's father left Algeria without delay, she died on Sunday, May 10, 1998 in Arcueil. Joe Nordmann discussed the case in his memoir, Aux vents de l'histoire.'

Who was Fernand Iveton?

Guillotined on February 11, 1957, Fernand Iveton is the only "European" to have been executed by France during the Algerian War. In its coverage of his death, France-Soir, a leading newspaper, described him as a "killer.' Paris-Presse, another mainstream organ, called him a "terrorist."

In the fortress of our bodies 
May our ideal live on
Mingled with your blood

*

Joseph Andras, Tomorrow They Won't Dare to Murder Us, tr. by Simon Leser (Verso Books)
Noura Wedell, “Pierre Guyotat: Interview” (BOMB Magazine)
Pierre Guyotat, Idiocy tr. by Peter Behrman de Sinéty (NYRB Classics)
The Cure, “Disintegration”

“But it is too late, and all that is left to do is either repent or forget. Of course, we forget. Society, however, is no less affected. Unpunished chines. according to the Greeks, infected the city-state.”

— Albert Camus on Iveton, in “Reflexions sur la guillotine,” Nouvelle Review francaise, June-July 1957

13 things I keep re-reading.

Saw her in the theatre. Heart raced. Went home alone and angry.

— Schopenhauer, 1816

Life may be in color, but it’s much more real in black-and-white.

— Wim Wenders, The State of Things (1982)

Words from the pens of others that returned me to my own writings in the past week, and offered me branches of anise to chew while thinking:

1. Lucy Schiller’s “This and Thats: Toward an Ethics of Digression” (Cleveland Review)

2. Anahid Nersessian, “When Does a Divorce Begin?” (The Yale Review)

3. Stuart Hall and Jordan T. Camp, “When We Are All Enemies of the State” (Boston Review)

4. Leo Robson, “John Carey: The last public critic” (New Statesman)

5. Yasmin El-Rifae, “On Restlessness: Diaspora’s Nervous Energies” (Parapraxis)

6. Drew Basile, “The Robinsonade in the Age of Reality TV” (LARB)

7. Charlotte E. Rosen, “The End of Resistance History” (Protean)

8. Mark Iosifescu, “Using the Night: Thomas Pynchon’s evolving populisms” (n + 1)

9. Robert Lucas Scott, “What Gillian Rose Saw in Auschwitz” (New Statesman)

10. Jess Bergman, “A Firm Sense of Resolve” (The Nation)

11. Lily Scherlis, “Group Relations” (n+1)

12. Ben Libman, “By Its Bad Side” (3:AM)

13. Eric Dean Wilson, “Cruising for Normal” (Baffler)

14. “Open Letter on The New School’s ‘Restructuring’ Plans” (e-flux notes)

Elsewhere, it was a delight to spent time with Lisa Olstein’s glimmering mind.

"The blurred and imperfect image".

The marvelous Barbara Johnson led me back to Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Marble Faun, and the challenges posed by ruins to representation, particularly in the Protestant disparagement of images and iconography. Hawthorne wrote the novel directly from the notebooks kept while serving a diplomatic post in Italy, accompanied by his wife, a sculptor.

In the scene that held my attention last night, the sculptor named Kenyon asks his friend, Hilda (the painter who specializes in copying details from the works of Old Masters) for her thoughts on his attempt to sculpt Cleopatra. Hilda responds to Kenyon’s expressive, complicated, and moody Cleopatra with admiration, for it is indeed is spectacular; the statue openly inhabits classicism while pushing the affective range closer to the intensity of the Vatican’s Laocoön (which Kenyon coveted). And it is Kenyon’s response to Hilda’s complimentary tone that interests me.

“Ah; your kind word makes me very happy,” he says to Hilda, “and I need it, just now, on behalf of my Cleopatra. That inevitable period has come, (for I have found it inevitable, in regard to all my works,) when I look at what I fancied to be a statue, lacking only breath to make it live, and find it a mere lump of senseless stone, into which I have not really succeeded in moulding the spiritual part of my idea. I should like, now —only it would be such shameful treatment for a discrowned queen, and my own offspring, too—I should like to hit poor Cleopatra a bitter blow on her Egyptian nose, with this mallet!”

Hilda laughs and tells Kenyon, “That is a blow which all statues seem doomed to receive, sooner or later, though seldom from the hand that sculptured them.” Then she attempts to address the underlying issue, namely, Kenyon’s feeling that he has failed to create the object he imagined. “You must not let yourself be too much disheartened by the decay of your faith in what you produce,” Hilda says. She continues:

I have heard a poet express similar distaste for his own most exquisite poems; and I am afraid that this final despair, and sense of short-coming, must always be the reward and punishment of those who try to grapple with a great or beautiful idea. It only proves that you have been able to imagine things too rich for mortal faculties to execute. been able to imagine things too high for mortar faculties to execute. The Idea leaves you an imperfect image of itself, which you at first mistake for the ethereal reality, but soon find that the latter has escaped out of your closest embrace.

To which Kenyon replies, “And the only consolation is that the blurred and imperfect image may still make a very respectable appearance in the eyes of those who have not seen the original.”

Can the imperfect be a consolation? Well, it depends on the character. Hilda’s moralism and desire for purity confounds the notion of “goodness” in The Marble Faun, with the irony being that her dedication to copying the works of Old Masters positions itself as a repetition or recollection of perfection and purity. How is this recollection more innocent than daring to imagine and invent one’s own way of being or seeing?

Where Kenyon grants the “consolation” of achieving his art achieving a “respectable appearance” in the eyes of those who can’t compare Kenyon’s statue to the “original” in his mind, Hilda pushes past this and insists that:

“. . . there is a class of spectators whose sympathy will help them to see the Perfect, through a mist of imperfection. Nobody, I think, ought to read poetry, or look at pictures or statues, who cannot find a great deal more in them than the poet or artist has actually expressed. Their highest merit is suggestiveness.”

“You, Hilda, are yourself the only critic in whom I have much faith,” said Kenyon. “Had you condemned Cleopatra, nothing should have saved her.”

“You invest me with such an awful responsibility,” she replied, “that I shall not dare to say a single word about your other works.”

For Hilda, this merited “suggestiveness” can only be pedagogical, or instructive in living the virtuous life. In many ways, she represents the belief that what we consume determines the moral value of what we create, think, imagine, and live. By reproducing the works of Old Masters, she risks nothing. She overpopulates her imagination with the conventional standards of beauty and goodness, only to find herself incapable of recognizing morality that looks different. For the Hildas of the world, the moral realm is accessed through beauty, through a sort of aestheticism that disclaims personal preference in the name of the Greater Good, the Formal Perfection, the Beautiful. It is lonely in Hilda’s tower, since anything foreign or strange poses a threat to its simple rubric. How can we feel alongside a world in which having pink heresy would be heretical? How do our boxes and categories that specialize in recognition (or make recognition authoritative) limit the possibilities of the prefigurative?

In the sidereal, an excerpt from Herman Melville’s letter to Hawthorne in June 1851:

“The ancient poets thought of the publication of a poem as the time of saying it, and the time of saying it is also the time of it being heard, and that's the time when there's an exchange of that action, that verb, whatever the verb is that's being described,” Anne Carson said to Kevin McNeilly in an interview, adding— “The verb happens.” Unfinish it.

*

Anna Bilińska-Bohdanowicz, Portrait of Sculptor George Grey Barnard in his Atelier (1890)
Crooked Fingers, Cover of Prince’s “When U Were Mine”
Herman Melville, “Letter to Nathaniel Hawthorne, June 1851”
Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Marble Faun
William Orpen, Woman Dressing (sketch)

Cephalophores and serpentines.

The chasm was merely one of the orifices of that pit of blackness that lies beneath us, everywhere. The firmest substance of human happiness is but a thin crust spread over it, with just reality enough to bear up the illusive stage-scenery amid which we tread. It needs no earthquake to open the chasm. A footstep, a little heavier than ordinary, will serve; and we must step very daintily, not to break through the crust, at any moment.

— Hawthorne

J'attendais en vain

- Biolay

“. . . the story of Trémeur who was beheaded by his step-father, Conmore”

In this version, as retold by Plastic Ekphrastic, “Conmore was totally against the Catholic Church and its proselytizing in the area.” Like many fellows of his time, Conmore was married. His wife floated through life with the unusual name of Trephine, and maybe this name is what led her to become interested in this novel religion known as Christianity, administered by the Catholic Church. Or maybe she was bored. Maybe the daily had dulled her to the point of unfeeling things.

When Conmore discovered that Trephine had become interested in this new religion, he did what husbands do when their wives step away from the usual roles, which is to say, Conmore killed her. He murdered his wife because he could not tolerate her new interests and affections.

Heresy begins in the home; revelation begins in the child’s play:

“Years passed, when one day as Conmore was walking in the woods he came to the very spot where he had slain Trephine. There he found children playing, one of whom was called by his companions Tremeur. The name attracted his attention. He looked at the child and asked him his age.”

“‘I shall soon be nine’, he replied.”

“Conmore thought for a moment. He had the intuition, soon the certainty, that this child before him was the son of himself and Trephine. Quick as a flash he drew his sword and struck the child’s head off, as he had struck off the head of his mother, and then hastened away.”

“The little martyr, says the legend, when the tyrant was gone, took his head in his hands and carried it to the side of his mother’s tomb where she was sleeping. In the cemetery of St. Trephine is a chapel, of modern construction, covering the tomb of Tremeur, which is not far from that of his mother. Inside the church, five round stones emerge. The people declare they are the stones with which Tremeur was playing when he was struck down by his father.”

The way that “shall soon be nine” curls in the ear, making a landscape of what will be lost. All sound— and sounding — in the alliterative pluck of it.

SpeaKing of sounds, there is the beck of homophones in the hagiography’s naming. Take Tremeur for instance (tremor or tres morte or tre meure) leaps in imagination that may or may not get evoked subliminally when we read a name. In yesterday’s writing workshop, we spoke briefly about homophones, words that sound the same but mean different things. K’s are a personal favorite…. I love the K in bike where it meets up with sidewalk and kickstand. A heap of fallen k’s.

Cockle forever. Cockle is a purrfect word. It has a K for a heart. I want to roll it around like a tennis ball and admire it from every angle. The way it prickles and sticks, the velocity of that stickiness and its coherence, the associative tug that drags its prickle into the subconscious. A cockle is kissing cousins to a cocklebur. A cackle is what a cockle becomes when left out in the midday sun of Naples. The dice of audibility are creaking, thickening, and broadening the field of the piece, which is using the "K" sound to establish itself. There is a soundscape at hand.  

And there are other associations clamoring in the corridor, where those prickles and pricks slide down the throat like a husked mollusk. Samuel Beckett paces a perfect square near the water fountain, More Pricks Than Kicks at hand. Cockles couple on a plate or backstage. They navigate using a single yellow foot that moves forward by thrusting itself into the sand. 

The homophone is two-faced: it plays between the salt on a cheek or the ocean on a face. A cockle and cackle color that carries this piece in its teeth. (The key of D major shudders in neon.) On a funny note, speaking of two faces, Beckett’s short story collection, More Pricks Than Kicks, was published in 1934 and then promptly banned for religious reasons by his birthland country of Ireland under the stipulations of the Censorship Act of 1929. Beckett took the title of the book from a verse in the Acts of the Apostles, when the apostle Paul is admonished by Jesus of Nazareth prior to his conversion on the road to Damascus. In this verse, Paul is told: “I am Jesus whom thou persecutes; it is hard for thee to kick against the pricks.”

The photograph cuts across time and discloses a cross-section of the event or events which were developing at that instant. We have seen that the instantaneous tends to make meaning ambiguous. But the cross-section, if it is wide enough, and can be studied at leisure, allows us to see the interconnectedness and related coexistence of events. Correspondences, which ultimately derive from the unity of appearances, then compensate for the lack of sequence.

This may become clearer if I express it in a diagrammatic, but necessarily highly schematic, way. In life it is an event's development in time, its duration, which allows its meaning to be perceived and felt. If one states this actively, one can say that the event moves towards or through meaning. This movement can be represented by an arrow.

— John Berger, Understanding a Photograph

Brechtian. See a flat rat escape that one-dimensional skull.
  And then, and then, what whispers there.
        Your agony, mine, in the fully consensual design

of this play of light—you crowd of missing ones,
  return the ball to me! whispers, whispers and her voice
        (she never arrives) froze on the knock.

Flat thunder, all my heart, you might use Brahms behind it.
  Dull, whitish, deadly as a carpenter’s chalkline.
        Not Beethoven—Beethoven I cannot flatten.

— Anne Carson, “My Show”

They juice me, seduce me
Dress me up in Stussy

— Tricky

Tonight’s schedule is all singsong and soundsame. As I prepare for it, Frank O’Hara stands near a kitchen wall and look downs, offering his irrepressible smile to the floor, those wonderful questions from “Personism” animating my own. I mean: “. . . how can you really care if anybody gets it, or gets what it means, or if it improves them. Improves them for what? For death? Why hurry them along? Too many poets act like a middle-aged mother trying to get her kids to eat too much cooked meat, and potatoes with drippings (tears). I don’t give a damn whether they eat or not.”

Can’t help thinking the chasm was merely one of the orifices in that word with K for a heart.

*

Anne Carson, “My Show”
Anonymous, “Saint Trémeur” at Chapelle Saint-Trémeur in Bury, France (XVIIe century)
Benjamin Biolay, “Padam”
John Berger, Understanding a Photograph
”Cephalophores: Headless Saints and Martyrs in France” (Plastic Ekphrastic)
Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Marble Faun
Paul Westerberg, “First Glimmer”
Tricky, “Hell Is Around the Corner”

My Life as a Notebook.

For cosmology of the asterisk, see under/ground press.

"A Matisse" by William Carlos Williams.

A woman spreads her fingers around in an object that no longer exists: The Invisible Object, a structure by Alberto Giacometti.

— Henri Lefebvre, The Missing Pieces

*

A statement on process and “copying” by Alberto Giacometti, as recorded in his Sketchbook of Interpretive Drawings —

I began to copy long before even asking myself why I did it, probably in order to give reality to my predilections, much rather this painting here than that one there, but for many years I have known that copying is the best means for making me aware of what I see, the way it happens with my own work; I can know a little about the world there, a head, a cup, or a landscape, only by copying it.

*

— intersected with my readings of Anne Carson this week. . . particularly a passage from her lecture on corners, where she mentions Giacometti’s tree right after noting that “there is something cozy” in a play by Harold Pinter, despite its “repression and menace and horrible emotions”:

Compare a Beckett play, say, Waiting for Godot. What is so immediately desolate about Waiting for Godot as soon as the curtain rises? Maybe simply the fact that it has no house. Pinter plays generally take place in a house. Each character starts out in their little corner of the world, however ruined, psychotic, or hopeless. The stage set for the opening act of Waiting for Godot is given as an undefined place with tree. Bachelard says a house is a psychic state. Waiting for Godot offers no state. Here is no inside or outside, no structure that might open up to reveal something else. If the play contains a knowledge or opposes a riddle, it is a riddle distributed everywhere structurelessly. I wonder why he added the tree. Beckett wondered this too, eventually. In 1961, when the play was revived in Paris, he hired Giacometti to make the tree. One can see the attraction.

(audience laughing)

Well, not just the desolation and gashed surfaces and primordial manner of Giacometti's figures, there was also a sense of self-consciousness, almost despair about the limitations of their art that Beckett and Giacometti shared. Beckett wanted a tree that cried out as Giacometti did once in an interview, "I don't know if I work in order to do something "or in order to know what I can't do "when I want to do it." It's a lot to ask of a tree.

(audience laughing)

Beckett did not, at first, like the tree Giacometti made. It was reconsidered, redesigned, and remade, ending up as a straight, spindly white plaster thing that one spectator likened to a drain pipe. The tree had six leaves. In the end, Beckett called it superb. Looking at pictures of this stage set and this tree, I was reminded of something told me by a friend who is a child psychologist. When children get therapy, they're often asked to draw a picture of their house, as this is believed to be revelatory of life in the home and life in the mind. Most every kid draws the same house: a square building with central doorway, pointy roof, and chimney exuding smoke. Children of happy families draw the smoke as billowing, cloudy curves. Children of broken or difficult homes are inclined to make straight, thin smoke. Straight, thin smoke is regarded as worse, more depressing than no smoke at all or refusing to draw one's house.

(audience laughing)

When the Swiss novelist, Max Frisch, was dying, he gave a final interview in which he described a dream he kept having. In the dream, he sees Max Frisch balanced on the curve of the earth, but starting to slide off. An empty stage with white plaster tree gives just enough curve to the earth, just enough boundary to the unbounded to suggest the beginning of real terror. The unbounded, in Greek, apeiron, a word formed by adding the negative prefix alpha to the noun peirar, which is thought to mean rope end. Unboundedness is a rope not tied off at the end to prevent its unraveling. The first person to use this word as a metaphysical value, the philosopher, Anaximander, described to apeiron as the arche of all things. Arche meaning origin, first cause, first principle or beginning. And in Aristotle's account, the unbounded is abhorrent because it is nothing but beginning. Aristotle says, “Nature flees from the unbounded.” The unbounded is imperfect or incomplete, “and nature always seek completion.” Corners, part three. So on the one hand, we might regard corners as shelter, comfort, containment, completion, what Stevie Smith calls four walls and a pot of jam, something valued for their boundaries and useful in their form. On the other hand, the phrase to be cornered can signify a wish to escape or dissolve or deny the threat of angles closing.

*

— which then rubbed up against an ekphrasis by William Carlos Williams:

A Matisse

On the french grass, in that room on Fifth Ave., lay that woman who had never seen my own poor land. The dust and noise of Paris had fallen from her with the dress and underwear and shoes and stockings which she had just put aside to lie bathing in the sun. So too she lay in the sunlight of the man's easy attention. His eye and the sun had made day over her. She gave herself to them both for there was nothing to be told. Nothing is to be told to the sun at noonday. A violet clump before her belly mentioned that it was spring. A locomotive could be heard whistling beyond the hill.

There was nothing to be told. Her body was neither classic nor whatever it might be supposed. There she lay and her curving torso and thighs were close upon the grass and violets.

So he painted her. The sun had entered his head in the color of sprays of flaming palm leaves. They had been walking for an hour or so after leaving the train. They were hot. She had chosen the place to rest and he had painted her resting, with interest in the place she had chosen.

It had been a lovely day in the air.—What pleasant women are these girls of ours! When they have worn clothes and take them off it is with an effect of having performed a small duty. They return to the sun with a gesture of accomplishment.—Here she lay in this spot today not like Diana or Aphrodite but with better proof than they of regard for the place she was in. She rested and he painted her.

It was the first of summer. Bare as was his mind of interest in anything save the fullness of his knowledge, into which her simple body entered as into the eye of the sun himself, so he painted her. So she came to America.

No man in my country has seen a woman naked and painted her as if he knew anything except that she was naked. No woman in my country is naked except at night.

In the french sun, on the french grass, in a room on Fifth Ave., a french girl lies and smiles at the sun without seeing us.

*

— which resisted the image of his infamous plums, or made me consider a counterpoint to this image, also authored by William Carlos Williams:

*

— which carried the final ellipsis into a structure resembling an ear, where the lobe had to be a hand, as imagined by Meret Oppenheim in this portrait of Giacometti’s ear:

Meret Oppenheim, The ear of Giacometti (1970-1979)

*

— which then wiggled into an “experience” written by Alberto Giacometti, himself, in “The Dream, the Sphinx, and the Death of T,” translated by Barbara Wright:

I had just experienced, in reverse, what I had felt a few months earlier about living people. At that time I was beginning to see heads in the void, in the space surrounding them. The first time I became aware that as I looked at a head it became fixed, immobilized forever in that single instant, I trembled with fear as I had never trembled in my whole life, and a cold sweat ran down my back.

*

— which then ushered me back, in a cool sweat, to the woman spreading her fingers around in an object that no longer exists, an object named The Invisible Object, a structure that relates in its absence to Giacometti.

*

Alberto Giacometti, “The Dream, the Sphinx, and the Death of T” t. by Barbara Wright (Grand Street)
Anne Carson, “On Corners” (lecture transcript)
Eric Dolphy, “Feathers”
Meret Oppenheim, The ear of Giacometti (1970-1979)
William Carlos Williams, The Collected Poems: Volume I, 1909-1939 (New Directions)

Alberto Giacometti, Small bust on a double pedestal, 1940-45

Above/groundings.

Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

— Wallace Stevens, “The Snowman”

“When you're tired and you're hungry and you want something cool
Got something better than a swimming pool” (Tom Waits)

As the year begins its denouement, I want to (briefly) celebrate one of my favorite small presses, namely above/ground press, the lovechild of Rob McLennan, who also edits a poetry journal titled periodicities, as well as a collaborative poetry titled Touch the Donkey, in addition to writing and publishing poetry — and all the other ways in which a human being can make a life of his commitment to literature.

On that note, Rob recently wrote about Pierre Joris’ Poasis II: Selected Poems 2000-2024— and included this divinely-wrought poem by Joris, whose writings and translations nourished my understanding of language, and whose presence as a physical being is greatly missed by all who knew him.

Among the many writings delivered to my mailbox by above/ground press this year, I only have time to mention a few, and, so I do, mention them, with love and gratitude, beginning with a poem by Austin Miles from the journal, Touch the Donkey:

Speaking of the woods, or that patch of surviving pine trees two inches behind the curb where the ice cream truck stops, there are a few more popsicles shaped like poetry that I couldn’t forget, including:

Against Perfectionism & Other Poems by John Cone
Spamtoum by Noah Berlatsky
whittle gristle by Lori Anderson Moseman
Bibliomancy by Leah Souffrant
Studies by Micah Anthony Cavaleri
Chimneys by Tom Jenks

— and here’s a short poem by Tom Jenks from one of those little stacks that breathes smoke out of a house seasonally:

“Shoo-be-doo, ba-ba-da” (Tom Waits)

More ice cream that fueled my delirium from the above/ground offerings:

My Life as a Notebook by Jason Heroux
The Sun Will Bleach It Away by Rebecca Comay and Cary Fagan
Angel Dust by Micah Ballard
The Oh Oh by Beatriz Hausner
The Man: Micro Poems by Benjamin Niespodziany
The World Is Beautiful by Lillian Necakov
Never Saw It Coming by Steph Gray
pedagogies for the planthroposcene by Orchid Tierney

. . . which leads me to this, namely, a poem by Orchid Tierney from the chapbook mentioned above:

“I wish I had the guts to bum one but we’ve never met” (Tom Waits)

Ice cream is a pleasure. Sometimes ice cream owns its eater, or this is what I told myself after reading Lydia Unsworth’s GAG and cursing its genius. Loved it. Begged it not to end. Took it to the pond and read it to the swans. You should try it.

Finally — post festum— I fold Tom Waits’ “Grapefruit Moon” into one thousand paper airplanes that want to be a book… and launch them with a certain futility from a hill on this freezing day that begs for mittens and kittens and music:

'Cause every time I hear that melody
Something breaks inside
And the grapefruit moon, one star shining
Can't turn back the tide

*

Austin Miles, “Authorial domain of the representative” (Touch the Donkey 44)
Orchid Tierney, “it’s amazing how the sun . . . “ (pedagogies for the planthroposcene)
Tom Jenks, “overalls” ( Chimneys)
Tom Waits, “I Hope That I Don’t Fall in Love with You”
Tom Waits, “Ice Cream Man”
Tom Waits, “Little Trip to Heaven on the Wings of Your Love”
Tom Waits, “Lonely”
Tom Waits, “Midnight Lullaby”

Folker

Baby I'll hop the broom
Though I’d rather limbo underneath it

— Paul Westerberg

and I know the homunculus will be there, 
adjusting the oxygen mask then deciding 
to turn off the machines, pressing my paws 
and skull into the tar-pit for preservation, 
swearing to remember, swearing
there will never be another like me, making sure.

— Dean Young, “Today They Will Show Me the Homunculus”

Listening to an album of once-upon-a-time anthems and groveling with delight in simple rhymes that match like the space between footsteps and — yes — overvaluing the light and the lightness implied by “cause anyway’s all right / on a now or never night”.

Also admiring the pacing of these four couplets in one single sentence, as written by Wallace Stevens:

The Desire to Make Love in a Pagoda

Among the second selves, sailor, observe
The rioter that appears when things are changed,

Asserting itself in an element that is free,
In the alien freedom that such selves degustate:

In the first inch of night, the stellar summering
At three-quarters gone, the morning's prescience,

As if, alone on a mountain, it saw far-off
An innocence approaching toward its peak.

And eyeing these four sentences in a single (long) stanza with ragged edges, as penned by Marvin Bell:

Epithalamium

If you twist a rope
twist it and twist it
no matter how long a rope it is
after a while you cannot make one more turn
without skinning your palms
and burning the backs of your knuckles
and if you lift one hand from the rope
to get a better grip
the whole thing springs back
toward its most direct shape
its original being
with the fury of a coiled spring
at having been diverted from its purpose.
Every fiber of its being
rolls over on its back
the way molecules according to science
align themselves magnetically.
It is instructive to imagine that
the atoms in a rope
know where they belong
when you see those sad pieces of twine
that retail clerks wind around
boxes of socks and drinking glasses,
from which broken strands seem to reproduce
and under which the box strains outward.
And it is comforting to acknowledge it
when the molecules of a husband align themselves
with those of a wife
and the iron filings on the desk
connect the two ends of a horseshoe magnet underneath
as the moon follows the earth
forever in darkness.

Groveling (again) in the end-rhyme of a/a/b/c/c(slant)/b from St. Westerberg:

She's my better half
When she makes me laugh
When she don't, she ain't
The one that I like best
With the two-buck dress
She ain't no saint

And studying that exuberant line by Gerald Manley Hopkins which Theodore Roethke picked up to title (and drive) a poem that toils among the (now-sleeping) gardens:

Long Live the Weeds

Long live the weeds that overwhelm
My narrow vegetable realm! –
The bitter rock, the barren soil
That force the son of man to toil;
All things unholy, marked by curse,
The ugly of the universe.
The rough, the wicked and the wild
That keep the spirit undefiled.
With these I match my little wit
And earn the right to stand or sit,
Hope, look, create, or drink and die:
These shape the creature that is I.

And finally, a unequivocal tenderness for a friend, as written and dreamt by Jean Valentine:

If a Person Visits Someone in a Dream, in Some Cultures the Dreamer Thanks Them

        in memory of Reginald Shepherd 

Dear Reginald,
It is morning.
I sit at a table
writing a letter
with a needle and thread.

*

I pricked my finger         A pelican 
out of her migratory path,
even her language family—
whose child is gone
yet she absently pecks at her breast.

*

I write on the bedspread
I am making for you there
May you breathe deeply and easily.
If a person visits someone in a dream,
in some cultures the dreamer thanks them in the morning
for visiting their dream.

*

I call it dream
not that I am drawn to that which withdraws
but to him pearled, asleep, who never withdraws.

*

At a hotel in another star. The rooms were cold and
damp, we were both at the desk at midnight asking if
they had any heaters. They had one heater. You are
ill, please you take it. Thank you for visiting my dream.

*

Can you breathe all right?
Break the glass        shout
break the glass         force the room
break the thread       Open
the music behind the glass.

*

Remember that blue vine?    Grown
                            alongside the gate

fourteenth century
                        Venus close as the moon

the bowl of the skull    turning here
                                         lifting that

Appositely, but also hinged to the key of G in the negations and machinations of memory:

I'm in love with a dream I had as a kid
I wait up the street until you show
That dream it came true, but you never do
No you never did
As far as I know

"Alban still speaks of you."

It takes a great deal of love to create a dead man who never dies, to listen to him and to speak to him, and find out his wishes, which he will always have because one has created him.

— Elias Canetti

You are mine own.

— the words set in Alexander von Zemlinsky’s Lyric Symphony

Helene Karoline Nahowski Berg

The opera

Although Alban Berg first glimpsed Helene Nahowski at the Vienna State Opera, their formal introduction occurred on April 19th, 1907, a date that coincided with Good Friday. Alas, the two fell in love. Helene’s father worried about Berg’s physical health and asthma and maintained a firm opposition to their marrying until 1911, when he finally relented and allowed his daughter to marry the man she adored. To Helene, Alban was perfect, ideal—- his physical challenges and nervous ailments didn’t bother her. His daughter from a previous relationship was welcomed with love. She jettisoned her burgeoning career as an opera singer in order to focus on Alban’s career as a composer. This sort of tragedy wasn’t unusual in Vienna.

Fast forward to the year 1914, when the Bergs attended the first production of Georg Büchner’s play,Woyzeck, in Vienna. By the end of the evening, Alban knew he wanted to make an opera of it, and he worked to realize this desire for the next seven years, eventually settling on 15 scenes from the play that would be part of an opera with three acts (with five scenes each). He also adapted the libretto for Wozzeck, his first opera, which premiered in 1925.

Wozzeck (as sourced from the Alban Berg Villa)

A scene

In May 1925, Alban Berg began an affair with Hanna Fuchs-Robettin, the wife of a close friend. Elias Canetti knew her from shared social circles centered around the patronage of Hanna’s father, Rudolf Werfel, a wealthy manufacturer of gloves and leather goods.

How to set the scene for the tempests of 1925? Berg spent much of the year’s remainder navigating the popularity of his opera while composing Lyric Suite, which used a combination of his initials and those of Hanna (HF) as well as a melodic quote from Alexander von Zemlinsky's Lyric Symphony, which originally set the words “You are mine own.”

the catastrophe

Alban died on the night of December 23-24, 1935, at the age of 50. In the foreword to the letters of Alban that she edited, Helene wrote: “I lived for 28 years on earth in the paradise of his love — and if I had the strength to survive the catastrophe of his earthly death, it was through the union of our souls — an alliance long since forged — across time and space — in eternity.”

Elias Canetti’s memories of Alban Berg

As usual, looking at photographs of an absent person stimulates the writer to memorialize them. So Elias Canetti recollects his relationship to Berg in his memoirs, from which I quote extensively:

Today I have been looking with emotion at pictures of Alban Berg. I don't yet feel up to saying what my acquaintance with him meant to me. I shall try only to touch quite superficially on a few meetings with him.

I saw him last at the Café Museum a few weeks before his death. It was a short meeting, at night after a concert. I thanked him for a beautiful letter, he asked me if my book had been reviewed. I said it was still too soon; he disagreed and was full of concern. He didn't quite come out with it but hinted that I should be prepared for the worst. He, who was himself in danger, wanted to protect me. I sensed the affection he had had for me since our first meeting. “What can happen,” I asked, “now that I've got this letter from you?” He made a disparaging gesture, though I could see he was pleased. “You make it sound like a letter from Schönberg, it’s only from me.”

He wasn't lacking in self-esteem. He knew very well who he was. But there was one living man whom he never ceased to place high abort himself: Schönberg. I loved him for being capable of such veneration. But I had many other reasons for loving him.

I didn't know at the time that he had been suffering for months from furunculosis. I didn't know that he had only a few weeks to live. On Christmas Day, I suddenly heard from Anna that he had died the day I didn't know at the time that he had been suffering for months from furunculosis; I didn't know that he had only a few weeks to live. On Christmas Day, I suddenly heard from Anna that he had died the day before. On December a8 I went to his funeral in Hietzing cemetery. At the cemetery I saw no such movement as I had expected, no group of people going in a certain direction. I asked a small misshapen gravedigger where Alban Berg was being buried. "The Berg body is up there on the left," he croaked. Those words gave me a jolt, but I went in the direction indicated and found a group of perhaps thirty people. Among them were Ernst Krenek, Egon Wellesz and Willi Reich. All I remember of the speeches is that Willi Reich spoke of the deceased as his teacher, expressing himself in the manner of a devoted pupil. He said little, but there was humility in his feeling for his dead teacher, and his was the only address that did not grate on me at the time. To others who spoke more cleverly and coherently I did not listen; 1 didn't want to hear what they said, because I was in no condition to realize where we were.

saw him before me at a concert, reeling slightly when moved by some Debussy songs. He was a tall man and when he walked he leaned forward; when this reeling set in, he made me think of a tall blade of grass swaying in the wind. When he said "wonderful," half the word seemed to stay in his mouth, he seemed drunk. It was babbled praise, reeling wonderment.

When I first went to see him at his home—I had been recommended to him by H.—I was struck by his serenity. Famous in the outside world, in Vienna a leper—1 had expected grim defiance. I had thought of him far from his home in Hietzing and didn't stop to ask myself why he lived here. I didn't connect him with Vienna, except insofar as he, a great com-poser, was here to incur the contempt of the far-famed city of music. I thought this had to be so, that serious work could be done only in a hostile environment; I drew no distinction between composers and writers; it seemed to me that the resistance which made them was in both cases the same. This resistance, I thought, drew its strength from one and the same source, from Karl Kraus.

I knew how much Karl Kraus meant to Schönberg and his students. This may have been responsible at first for my own good opinion. But in Berg's case there was something more: that he had chosen Wozzeck as the subject of an opera. I came to Berg with the greatest expectations, I had imagined him quite different from what he was—does one ever form a correct picture of a great man? But he is the only one I expected so much of who did not disappoint me.

I couldn't get over his simplicity. He made no great pronouncements. He was curious because he knew nothing about me. He asked what I had done, if there was anything of mine he could read. I said there was no book; only the stage script of The Wedding. At that moment his heart went out to me. This I understood only later; what I sensed at the time was a sudden warmth, when he said: “Nobody dared. Would you let me read it in that form?” There was no particular emphasis on the question, but there was no room for doubt that he meant it, for he added encouragingly: “It was the same with me. Then there must be something in it.” He didn't demean himself with this association, but he gave me expectation, the best thing in the world. It wasn't H.'s organized expectation that left one cold or depressed, it wasn't the expectation that Scherchen quickly converted into power. It was something personal and simple; he obviously wanted nothing in return though he had made a request. I promised him the script and took his interest as seriously as it was meant.

I told him in what state of mind I had come across Wozzeck at the age of twenty-six and how I had kept reading and reading the fragment all through the night. It turned out that he had been twenty-nine when he attended the first night of Büchner's play in Vienna. He had seen it many times and decided at once to make it into an opera. I also told him how Wozzeck had led to The Wedding, though there was no direct connection between them, and I alone knew how one had brought me to the other.

In the further course of our conversation I made some impertinent remarks about Wagner, for which he gently but firmly reproved me. His love of Tristan seemed imperturbable. “You're not a musician,” he said, “or you wouldn't say such things.” I was ashamed of my impertinence, but I wasn't too unhappy about it. I felt rather like a schoolboy who had given a wrong answer. My gaffe didn't seem to diminish his interest in me. And indeed, to help me out of my embarrassment, he repeated his request for my play.

This was not the only occasion when he sensed what was going on inside me. Unlike many musicians, he was not deaf to words; on the contrary, he was almost as receptive to them as to music. He understood people as well as he did instruments. After this first meeting I realized that he was one of the handful of musicians whose perception of people is the same as writers. And having come to him as a total stranger, I also sensed his love of people, which was so strong that his only defense against it was his inclination to satire. His lips and eyes never lost their look of mockery, and he could easily have used his irony as a defense against his warmheartedness. He preferred to make use of the great satirists, to whom he remained devoted as long as he lived.

I would like to speak of every single meeting I had with him; they were rather frequent in the few years of our acquaintance. But his early death cast its shadow on them all; like Gustav Mahler, he was not yet fifty-one when he died. It discolored every conversation I had with him and I am afraid of letting the grief I still feel for him rub off on his serenity. I am reminded of a sentence in a letter to a student, which I learned about only later. “I have one or two months yet to live, but what then? —| can think or combine no more than this—and so I'm profoundly depressed.” This sentence did not refer to his illness but to the threat of imminent destitution.

At the same time he wrote me a wonderful letter about Auto-da-Fé, which he had read in that same mood. He was in severe pain and in fear of losing his life, but he did not thrust the book aside, he let it depress him, he was determined to do the author justice. He did just that and conse-quently this first letter I received about the novel has remained the most precious of all to me.

His wife, Helene, survived him by more than forty years. Some people ridicule her for “keeping contact” with him all this time. Even if she was deluding herself, even if he spoke inside her and not from outside, this remains a form of survival that fills me with awe and admiration. I saw her again thirty years later, after a lecture given by Adorno in Vienna. Small and shrunken, she came out of the hall, a very old woman, so absent that it cost me an effort to speak to her. She didn't recognize me, but when I told her my name, she said: “Ah, Herr C!  That was a long time ago. Alban still speaks of you.” 

I was embarrassed and so moved that I soon took my leave. I forwent calling on her. I'd have been glad to revisit the house in Hietzing, where she was still living, but I didn't wish to intrude on the intimacy of the conversations she was always carrying on. Everything that had ever happened between them was still in progress. Where his works were involved, she asked him for advice and he gave her the answer she expected. Does anyone suppose that others were better acquainted with his wishes? It takes a great deal of love to create a dead man who never dies, to listen to him and to speak to him, and find out his wishes, which he will always have because one has created him.

other materials

The library of Alban and Helene Berg in Vienna contains the composer’s original Bösendorfer grand piano, the desk from his study, more than 3,000 books or scores, and other small objects . . . . including collections, memorabilia, etc.

Berg collected coins, rock crystals, and mineral specimens. As a young man, he drew crystals in his notebooks. As an adult, he groomed a collection of American minerals. Among the coins displayed in the Berg library, there is a 10 centesimi piece from Italy dated 1862, a 10c from the French Republic circa 1915; 2 florins from the Kingdom of Belgium circa 1866, 2 Austrian groschen circa 1929, and a token for the screening of the Threepenny Opera film at the Sascha.

glücksbringer

It is unclear as to whether Alban Berg enjoyed his superstitions, but it is certain that he had them.

Among the lucky charms depicted below, there is a particular significance to the netsuke figure, since Alban made Helene promise to hold it secretly in her hand during all of his performances.

1. A 19th century ivory netsuke of Jurojin, one of the seven Japanese gods of good fortune, representing a long life.

2. Intertwined rings as a symbol of Alban’s indissoluble marriage to Helene.

3. “Eberzahn” charm that Alban liked to carry with him.

4. Horseshoe for good luck that Alban kept near at hand.

“andante amoroso”

Alban Berg gifted Hanna an annotated copy of the Lyric Suite score, who then bequeathed it to her daughter Dorothea. Held in the Austrian National Library, the score’s annotation reads in part:

It has also, my Hanna, allowed me other freedoms! For example, that of secretly inserting our initials, HF and AB, into the music, and relating every movement and every section of every movement to our numbers, 10 and 23. I have written these, and much that has other meanings, into the score for you. ... May it be a small monument to a great love.

As the Nazis implemented their genocidal campaign for national greatness fascism, Hanna Fuchs-Robettin and her husband, Herbert, fled Prague for New York City. He died in the US in 1949; Hanna survived him by nearly 15 years.

In 1976, fourteen of Alban Berg's letters to Hanna were discovered among her papers. Some had been carried between them by his admiring student, Theodor Adorno. Others had been carried to Hanna by Alma Mahler-Werfel, the widow of Gustav Mahler who had married Hanna’s father, and whose daughter — Anna Mahler — would leave a lasting imprint on Elias Canetti’s life.

Evidently, Helene Berg maintained an ongoing connection to her deceased husband. In her last will and testament, Berg’s widow forbade any perusal of the composition sketches for the opera Lulu or its performance in three acts.

“The more passionately thought denies it's conditionality for the sake of the unconditional, the more unconsciously, and so calamitously, it is delivered up to the world. Even its own impossibility it must at last comprehend for the sake of the possible.”

— Theodor Adorno, Minima Moralia

“How do I (my eye) follow this sequence? I am present as if I were listening to music. How do these figures add up?”

— Paul Valery, notebook dated 1935

[postlude: Act 3 Wozzek]

*

Alban Berg, "Woyzeck, by Georg Büchner”
Alban and Helene Berg’s Library, as archived by Kulturpool
Alban Berg Villa
Dick Strawser, “Alban Berg's Lulu: Up Close & Maybe Too Personal (Part 3)”
Elias Canetti, The Memoirs of Elias Canetti
”Hanna Fuchs-Robettin” (Wikipedia)
Renée Fleming & Emerson String Quartet, Lyric Suite: A Musical Love Story
Thierry Raboud, “Alban Berg, notes secrètes” (La Liberte)

V.

“A day is a leaf on the tree of your life.”

— Paul Valéry, notebook dated 1941 (t. by Nathaniel Raduvsky-Brody)

“But who is to strike off the monster's head, now that it has itself lain long, with its fair locks, under the linden tree?”

- Theodor Adorno, Minima Moralia

Morning on the balcony, the earsplitting din of shutters being opened; I create myself. I take my place in the day and I look out over all things. All— the unfolding of it all. The word and movement of Greetings!—

Salve, natura, come to mind. The birds speak and carve out their cries from untold silence. The angular nature of vision gathers, concentrates the gaze manipulates/ near and far. Everything in this presentation has its place, the palm trees, the smaller and smaller houses, the tops of the cypresses, the mountain, distinct, reserved, clear tall, and the sea, a band of pure color against which the Cap d’Antibes is painted in greenish black in geographical projection.

— Paul Valéry, notebooks dated 1924

There is a tall tulip tree in the little panes of my window.
My eyes come to rest there, imploring an idea
And a question makes its nest there among the leaves.
Paris is more or less behind those leaves.
This countryside crushes me- saddens me. 
And every countryside.
No matter how beautiful they are, they cause me pain.
I feel like crying out from so much solitude and like writing.
I clearly feel that I converse, even with myself,
as one eats out of politeness,- being invited but having no appetite.

— Paul Valéry, Delta [X, 217], 1924

Here is the man of questions and combinations before his idols. But sometimes they are lifeless dolls in his eyes, the dead and wooden pawns of an abandoned game, just as on other days they were winged and luminous powers. Empty and vain are the same words that were living and deadly weapons, organs of knowledge, grasp and enjoyment, instruments and acts of possession, treasures and keys to treasures, fine vessels and the extraordinary brews they contain, lights and also eyes.. Who will recount the variations of my faith in my thoughts?

— Paul Valéry, “Psalm M” / notebook dated 1922

I only speak for the man who is alone— he who rises in medias nocte, in the nakedness of his existence—as if resurrected on the other side of his consciousness, where all things seem real and strange to him— as if he had come with a lamp to a dark place crowded with unfamiliar objects that are illuminated and transformed at every step. At an hour when he was not expected, in a place that could be any other...

— Paul Valéry, notebook dated 1930

The living water, to be running after something;
The sun, to be slowly seeking step by step
The point from which
It will see something.

Another
Suddenly the moon breaks through
The murkiness of evening
As a curious woman in a crowd
Finds herself in the front row.

— Paul Valéry, notebook dated 1937

“How strange is what is good!” This fragrance— this creamy smoothness— the turn of this neck; and my hands moving downward over these shoulders to reach these breasts— to where they form the solidity of the bust with the continuous gentleness of touch, a series of modulations of the press of my fingers, of pressure and slipping at contact, which makes my soul the creator of what offers itself to this act from place to place and better and better. I make and remake you—I cannot abandon this ultimate act, lose this song of my hands.

— Paul Valéry, Untitled notebook [XX, 710], 1937

So many things you have never really seen, in this street where you pass 6 times a day, in your room where you live so many hours every day! —- Observe the angle the edge of that dresser makes with the windowpane. It must be reclaimed from the ordinary, from the visible and unseen,—- it must be saved,— and given whatever you give by mere imitation, from the insufficiency of your sensibility, to the most insignificant landscape, sunset, storm over the sea, or piece in a museum.

Those are ready-made gazes. But give to this man on the street, this corner, this prosaic hour and object —and you will be repaid a hundredfold . . .

— Paul Valéry, notebook [XXIII, 480), 1940

“...the saleable is itself subjectivity administrated by subjectivity.” (Adorno, MM)

“. . .  if even the freest of spirits no longer write for an imaginary posterity…”

— Teddie, MM

*

Anna Calvi feat. David Byrne, “Strange Weather”
Angus & Julia Stone, “Nothing Else”
Paul Valéry, t. by Nathaniel Raduvsky-Brody, The Idea of Perfect: The Poetry of Paul Valery (Macmillan)

Images and music.

I think true poets are often in flight from their poetry, and it is only when they become fairly heroic that they can stand and look their own poetry and their own self in the face, because most of the big poets we know are monsters.

– A. R. Ammons

. . . multiplying defenses does nothing to mitigate defensiveness.

— Oliver Davis and Tim Dean

And the noise is as much as I can bear.

— P. J. Harvey

1 . . . true poets in flight . . .

And there is a poem in the stone, as there have been poems on the faces of stone from the earliest days of language.

The poem seeks a shape for saying something about what it means to live, to be a creature made and unmade by language, identified by words, chastised in verbs, lost in the “black wells of possibility” that A. R. Ammons will reference if you continue reading…

Poetics

I look for the way
things will turn
out spiraling from a center,
the shape
things will take to come forth in

so that the birch tree white
touched black at branches
will stand out
wind-glittering
totally its apparent self:

I look for the forms
things want to come as

from what black wells of possibility,
how a thing will
unfold:

not the shape on paper — though
that, too — but the
uninterfering means on paper:

not so much looking for the shape
as being available
to any shape that may be
summoning itself
through me
from the self not mine but ours.

A. R. Ammons

A shape is not quite a ‘form’, or should not be collapsed into the idea of form . . . it seems.

2 . . . become fairly heroic . . .

PJ Harvey’s ”Sweeter Than Anything” with poem by Alice Notley

Alas, no “little wizard” — but you can admire this little lizard instead. Take it with the scent of soap and lutes and then another poem, as spoken into text by Alice Notley in 2001, with her lecture titled “Instability in Poetry” —

3 . . . look their own poetry and their own self in the face . . .

Your hair is scattered light:
the Greeks will bind it with petals.

— H. D., “Chorus to Iphageneia”

Staring at my mother’s Antartica from the back porch, living in multiple lands and temporalities: the poet’s station is quantum. The place is somewhere between the islets and the stanzas: the how of the poem meets the hows of the house in the scaffolds of syntax. Nazim Hikmet’s poem, “On Living,” buries its song beneath the form of an utterance when the line breaks are abandoned . . . . as if to say: “I mean, you must take living so seriously that even at seventy, for example, you’ll plant olive trees – and not for your children, either, but because although you fear death you don’t believe it, because living, I mean, weighs heavier.”

O, how “heavier” sounds.

How sounds lock horns with John Ashbery’s “love that is always like headlights” — how one queerly and ever-nearly hears the pen pausing on the flow chart:

Love that lasts a minute like a filter
on a faucet, love that is always like headlights in the glistening dark, heed
the pen’s screech. Do not read what is written. In time
it too shall become incoherent but for the time being it is good
just to tamper with it and be off, lest someone see you. And when this veil
of twisted creeper is parted, and the listing tundra is revealed
behind it, say why you had come to say it: the divorce. The no reason, as
the plane dives up into the sky and is lost. All that one had so carefully polished
and preserved, arranged in rows, boasted modestly to the neighbors about,
is going and there is nothing, repeat nothing, to take its place.

How the “listing tundra” lisps a little, as if to indicate the tongue limping.

The poet’s tongue must always limp a little, playing Eurydice to the beloved lyre-bearer known as the mind.

4 . . . because most of the poets . . .

How Marguerite Yourcenar wrote a testament to its abyss in L’oeuvre au noire: “Night had fallen, but without his knowing whether it was only within him or in the room: to him everything now was night. And night was also in motion: darkness gave way to more darkness. But this darkness, different from what the eyes see, quivered with colors . . .”

And the silence rang and rang and rang and rang and rang as Arthur Rimbaud invented the color of vowels from silences —

5 . . . we know are monsters . . .

The idea of pacing as applied to the velocity of curses coursing through Amy Gerstler’s "“Fuck You Poem #45”:

Fuck you puce and chartreuse.
Fuck you postmodern and prehistoric.
Fuck you under the influence of opium, codeine, laudanum and paregoric.
Fuck every real and imagined country you fancied yourself princess of.
Fuck you on feast days and fast days, below and above.
Fuck you sleepless and shaking for nineteen nights running.
Fuck you ugly and fuck you stunning.

Cut to the dreams that vary barely, repetitions that differ in number of centimes, as with those of Jacques Roubaud:

O bows and bows and bows and arrows — “Someone comes in,” per Roubaud. “I am in a cafe” where everything begins.

5. . . we know our monsters . . .

How the song haunts from inside the forest, where there is a monster who has done terrible things, the monster hides in the woods and this is the song it sings: Who will love me now? Who will ever love me? And a naked young man jumps into “the scrotumtightening sea” at the beginning of James Joyce’s Ulysses. And the date was October in the year 1905, when James Joyce sent a letter to his publisher, having already struggled to find a publisher for his much-cleaner book of short stories, Dubliners, and the curse words Joyce didn’t want to edit out of the text.

“It should be noted that the allusion to the stories they tell each other is made immediately after the mention of semen dropping in humus, which, in the Aristotelian phrase revived by Roland Barthes, is a particularly clear case of the “post hoc ergo propter hoc fallacy” (McQuillan 326). The reader is made to sense that ‘story time’ is going to disturb the lovers’ blissful ignorance of each other. What is more, it is exactly at the same moment that James Joyce’s words to Grant Richards, his publisher for Dubliners, are echoed: “I think people might be willing to pay for the special odor of corruption which, I hope, floats over my stories.”

And the reader of Joyce’s book is given the sense that ‘story time’ will disrupt the lovers’ blissful ignorance of each other, as it did to Paolo and Francesca.

7 . . . multiplying defenses . . .

To quote Oliver Davis and Tim Dean, from Hatred of Sex:

Group identities are no less defensive than individual ones; possibly they are more so. To claim that I have dual identities or intersecting identities, in the lingo à la mode, is simply to declare that my ego presides over various territories that it will defend against incursion. If identity denotes the ego's colonizing designs on experience, then narcissism could be redescribed as the imperialism of the psyche. Beneath contemporary claims made in the name of group identity, no matter how ostensibly progressive or radical, one hears the insistent clamor of narcissism.

Identities pose a special problem when it comes to sex because, as prototypically bound forms, they remain antipathetic to the effects of unbinding that characterize sexual pleasure at its most intense. Sex undoes identity. The contemporary shibboleth of ‘sexual identity’ is, from the psychoanalytic point of view, a contradiction in terms. One cannot credit the concepts of both the unconscious and identity; they are mutually exclusive. The psychoanalytic unconscious spells the impossibility of each and every identity. In this light our cherished identities may be redescribed as desperate defenses against the polymorphousness of pleasure, the multiplicity of desire, and above all the centrifugal forces of unbinding. Trumpism has made abundantly evident that there exist no nontoxic identity formations.

To quote Johannes Göransson from a book I devoured during pandemic:

In Socrates’ erotic anxieties about the written word, we can sense the origins of the most pervasive metaphor for translation: the idea that a translation is either ‘faithful’ or ‘free’. For many critics, the degree of a translators’ ‘fidelity’ is the only way of even discussing the translation. Translation’s proliferation of language ruins the monogamous illusion of the original.

To think that nothing gets as close as this . . .

John Cassavetes during filming of Woman Under the Influence.

*

A R. Ammons, “Poetics”
Alice Notley, “Instability in Poetry” (2001 Talk given at Temple University)
Amy Gerstler, “Fuck You Poem #45”
H. D., “Chorus to Iphageneia”
Jacques Roubaud, “Two Dreams” tr. by Mary Ann Caws
Johannes Göransson, Transgressive Circulation, Essays on Translation (Noemi Press)
Marguerite Yourcenar, excerpt from The Abyss, tr. by Grace Frick
Nazim Hikmet, “On Living”
Nicole Cooley, “Poetry of Disaster”
Oliver Davis and Tim Dean, Hatred of Sex (University of Nebraska, 2022)
PJ Harvey, “Who Will Love Me Now?”
PJ Harvey, ”Sweeter Than Anything”
PJ Harvey, ”This Wicked Tongue”
PJ Harvey, “Angel”
PJ Harvey, “Stone”
PJ Harvey, “Horses In My Dreams”
Philip Fried, “A Place You Can Live: Interview with A.R. Ammons,” Terrain.org, October 22, 2009.

"Je suis turbulent . . . Je suis négatif"

Je rêve d'un printemps définitif . . .

The first of December.

Most leaves have abandoned their trees and settled upon the dying grasses in clumps of soft brown, or else lingering in patches of desaturated gold. Along the hillside of Avondale Park, the eye catches a series of blankets woven together from leaves, their colors blown into ensembles by a windy weekend. I am trying to think my way out of the slats and the slots of this month, battling a sense the usual sense of urgency that upends the annual.

leafpile 1

Still chasing Picabia through the prior weekend.

Andre Breton as sandwich man by Francis Picabia at Dada Festival, Paris, March 27, 1920.

leafpile 2

The subject is portraiture, or— more specifically — a portrait of Marcel Duchamp.

Exploring the relationship between optics and art, Rotary Glass Plates (Precision Optics) was one of Man Ray’s first kinetic art pieces, created by mounting five painted glass plates of diminishing sizes on a metal axis which was then spun by a motor. When activated, the spinning plates appear as a single flat spiral that creates an optical illusion.

leafpile 3

“A signature is more than a name but less than the trace of an entire absent body,” wrote Eugenie Brinkema in an essay addressing Sophie Calle’s work.

Claude Cahun, “Henri Michaux” (1925)

Claude Cahun took this photograph of Henri Michaux in 1925. The image lives at the Art Institute of Chicago. I love it dearly, and can’t quite explain why the fold of Michaux’s hand keeps catching my eye and drawing a line between the white crumpling of a handkerchief and the pocket and the expression hanky-panky.

leafpile 4

Uncanniess rippling through the year 1917, when the avant-garde dialogued through short-lived journals and art magazines that often vanished as quickly as they were created, so that Witkacy’s multiple self-portrait in mirrors speaks to that of Duchamp, as if to play upon the mode of being “in uniform” while also disputing the possibility of unanimity within a single subject.

To be of five minds about the war.

To play with pipe that will be used to challenge the notions of representativity in art.

leafpile 5

Margitte and his wife, the treachery of images soon to arrive in the late 1920’s as that series of word-images inspired by children’s books and his early career in advertising.

Magritte eventually laid out his rationale for word-image paintings in an illustrated text called Words and Images.

leafpile 6

Motion’s entanglement with futurist notions of progress through industrialization reminds me of our contemporary fetish for technology as the savior and redeemer of future time. Not industry but tech. Not Industrialists but Tech Bros and Billionaires. Not snake oil but Bitcoin.

Collected from the corners of this day:

• The theremin yowling from the corners of Biolay’s “Chère inconnue”

• The tiny creaking sound that appears in Ólafur Arnalds’ “Near Light” — and the reverb that cuts, claps, moves like light scissoring across a sofa in the afternoon.

• Face à l'étendue de ma peine que n'ai-je entendu les sirènes. Face à l'étendue de ma peine je me baignerai nu dans la Seine.

• John Cassavetes in an interview, pushing back against the (fairly common) interpretation of his films as negative or depressing: “The world is so downbeat, so cynical; people want something to believe in. At least, people do deep down, but they're afraid to admit to humanities out loud for fear their friends and neighbors will think they are square. I get awfully sick of the mass flip attitude. I wish we weren't so hard-boiled. The human spirit is really at a dangerously low ebb. We need to pump adrenaline into our sentimental values, which have become so badly depleted. In this age of war fears, the destruction of everything and the fantastic progress of scientific wonders, we seem to have adopted only the rasping emotions of nerves for feelings - not emotions of the heart and soul that speak for faith and kindness and understanding There is something important in people, something that's dying, - the senses, a universal thing. We can't agree on politics, but maybe we can agree on senses. We are dying of sadness. The whole world is dying of sadness. We are the enemy. People don't want to say, 'Yes, we are confused; we are nothing.' It destroys all kinds of entertainment. If you really observe and put within the framework of the story some more important facet of life, if you say something that is a positive statement rather than a negative one, you have confirmed somebody's belief. If you affirm somebody's emotion or ideas, they don't feel ashamed of feeling this belief. I want to stress the indomitable qualities of people, not the defeatism.”

• Jeanne Moreau’s shredded voice dueting with Etienne Daho in “Le Vent qui roule un coeur.”

• Aragon’s rant on a Saturday long ago.

• Still staring at Wim Wender’s statement from “Like flying blind without instruments….”, and circling it the way one circles an installation in a museum or a raised car in a body shop: “A lot of my films start off with roadmaps instead of scripts. Sometimes it feels like flying blind without instruments. You fly all night and in the morning you arrive somewhere. That is: you have to try to make a landing somewhere so the film can end.For me this film has come off better than, or differently to, my previous films. Once more, we flew all night without instruments, but this time we landed exactly where we meant to. From the outset, Paris, Texas had a much straighter trajectory and a much more precise destination. And from the beginning, too, it had more of a story than my earlier films, and I wanted to tell that story till I dropped.” Still thinking about how Wenders’ “I” is what drops rather than the story or its characters.

• “In its instantaneous desire, [intimacy] destabilizes the very things institutions of intimacy are created to stabilize and people are constantly surprised by this,” Lauren Berlant wrote.

• The futility of passionate love: the motif illustrated in/by Josef von Sternberg’s film, The Devil Is A Woman (1935), with its screenplay written by John Dos Passos and based on the 1898 novel The Woman and the Puppet by Pierre Louÿs.

• “If poetry didn’t limp, it would run. . .” per Jean Cocteau.
  
  

*

Alfred Schnittke, Cello Sonata No. 1 (1978)
Benjamin Biolay, “Negatif”
Benjamin Biolay, “Chère inconnue”
Claude Cahun, “Henri Michaux” (1925)
Francis Picabia, Portrait of Andre Breton as sandwich-man (Dada Festival, Paris, March 27, 1920)
Monica Fernandez, “Why This Is Not a Pipe” (Fusion Magazine)
Ólafur Arnalds, “Near Light” (Living Room Songs)
Rene Magritte, “Les mots et les images” (1929)
Susan Buck-Morss, “The Flaneur, the Sandwichman, and the Whore: The Politics of Loitering” (New German Critique, no. 39)
Wim Wenders, “Like flying blind without instruments: On the turning point in Paris, Texas” (May 1984)

"The first three games were speed-chess warm up..."

Humiliation.

Unremitting shame. This is what Ivan experiences as his heartbeat slows to a wallow, “leaving between beats an abyss of  emptiness in his being, an emptiness he felt he was falling through.”

Immobilized in his own bed after waking from a nightmare that ejected him onto a city street with a flaming erection, buck naked, Ivan feels slightly “exhilarated” by this new state. He realizes his eyes are wide open, his body inaccessible to his mind. As Josip Novakovich tells it:

There was something coldly solemn about it, something extraordinary, a mysterium tremendum, something dangerous. Now instead of despising himself, he began to pity himself. Through pity he rose to the heights of respecting himself, nay,  loving himself. He continued breathing involuntarily, as though somebody else were doing it.

Ivan experiences his existence without shame. He is shameless. Unfortunately, he is also dead. From here on out, the story will be narrated by Ivan's corpse, as if from inside the coffin, but also in a continuing relationship to the world, his daughters, his wife, the afterlives of love and longing. 

The shadow of other shames.

In an earlier scene subtitled, “The Joys of Cuckolding Come to a Sorry End,” there is a moment when Ivan enters his office, and the staging as well as the affects seem to replay a scene from Gogol’s Nose, or else the drift of an overcoat…

Rewind to the staging of humiliation.

I keep returning to the way Novakovich builds into that moment of overwhelming shame that coincides with the subject’s death. A play-by-play of the staging.

To note, first, the sensory details indicating the ticking of time . . .

The Japanese alarm clock emitted a hiss as minutes rolled over each other. Ivan looked at the fluorescing green digits: 1:10, 1:11.

Followed by two brief sentences that locate duration within human flesh:

His wife began to snore. Then she stopped.

Immediately connected to a physical and mental experience of panic and terror for Ivan:

All of a sudden the terror of death pierced through his skin, infusing itself into his blood like cobra's poison. He smelled the incense of death, an acrid sensation in his nostrils. He remembered all the burials that he had ever seen, now unified into a single one: his own. He saw himself in a coffin, in a black suit, with his purple head propped up, giving him a permanently thoughtful air as becomes someone who is contemplat- ing being and nothingness. And he felt pangs of shame, shame which stank of old socks and genitals.

He was terrified that he would die, just suddenly vanish, without having done any- thing significant in his life, without understanding anything. He had not even had a single thought in the course of his life that could satisfy him aesthetically and fill his soul—if he had one. He had experienced only petty worries and vanity.

Followed by the usual existential dilemmas (which draw Ivan into an interesting relationship with his own subjectivity, or the character he makes of himself):

Now out of an additional vanity, out of wishing that he could think well of himself, he was worried that he had lived vainly.

In empty darkness, all his misery fell upon him. His hairs stood up on his arms and legs. His falling naked onto the pavement amidst a roar of laughter recreated itself in his head fluorescently, through a pinkish tint, with derisive echoes recalling his childhood humiliation: his head being whacked against the cement, children jeering.

Landing in the memory of childhood humiliation, or the return to that feeling of helplessness which destabilizes Ivan’s sense of himself as a husband, father, and employee.

The humiliation of death.

Ivan is dead— but the world keeps moving around him. In the section titled “A Death Certificate Speaks Up,” Ivan’s wife, Slava, calls the physician after discovering Ivan’s motionless body. Unable to reach a doctor by phone, she runs to the local pub in search of the doctor. This is where she finds him, at the tavern.

The doctor was there— a cigarette dangling from his lips, cards in his hands, a bottle of yellowish plum brandy on the table-surrounded by several yellow drunks and a blue policeman.

The doctor was clearly ill suited for his profession, good for nothing except the tavern. He had passed his university exams with the lowest passable grades; he had taken more than a decade to get his degree since his interests lay in whatever taverns were about: drinking, cards, women, and, now and then, a brawl—-though less and less frequently with his advancing age. But for that, he whored more and more routinely now at the spas

The doctor certifies Ivan’s death. And then, an uncanny sexual event begins between the doctor and the newly-widowed Slava, while her husband’s corpse sits on the bed.

Novakovich makes exquisite use of framing here: he repeats certain phrases and words to indicate a similarity between Ivan’s experience of death and Slava’s experience of ecstasy, beginning with the word “Suddenly.” So the doctor is doing his regular thing when:

Suddenly he seemed to wake up from his routine performance, for he was very sensitive to female warmth. Under the guise of further solace, while saying, “Everything's gonna be all right, he began to touch her neck and press her against his body.

And the next paragraph begins with that evocation of the delirium in mysterium tremendum:

In her near delirium, Slava hadn't paid any attention at first to the doctor's reassurances. The shivers of fear began to mix with some warm streams. She leaned her head quite freely on the physician's chest, and he began to rub his stubbly cheek against her hair, making her scalp shiver. He slid his hands down her back. “Everything's gonna be fine,” he said in his mesmerizing baritone. He buzzed these words into her ears, the warmth of his breath sending a stream of fire into the base of her brain, so that she lost her senses momentarily. The doctor pressed his fingers into her flesh beneath her skirt, sliding his palms up the back of her cool thighs.

Slava began to sigh, gasp, and moan. The doctor pressed her against the table, and she sat right on the crumpling death certificate, which rustled most disapprovingly. The doctor slid her skirt up, and with his hand kneaded her thighs and sent his pre- penile emissaries, his fingers, further into the foreign terrain. His fingers teased Slava, manipulating her electricity. She moaned as if she were falling through an abyss. The doctor kissed her and reached to unzip his pant.

“As if she were falling through an abyss.”

Ritual redress.

Slava must prepare Ivan for burial. She must dress him for the final time, while also addressing his physical body intimately.

As a verb, “redress” means to remedy or set right.

In its noun form, “redress” indicates a remedy or compensation for a wrong or a grievance.

When ending her two-year affair with Jean Mounet-Sully, Sarah Bernhardt blamed herself. “Dear Jean,” wrote Sarah, you must realize that I am not made for happiness.” Being so made, or not-made, Bernhardt continued to list her limitations: “It is not my fault that I am constantly in search of new sensations, new emotions. That is how I shall be until my life is worn away. I am just as unsatisfied the morning after as I am the night before. My heart demands more excitement than anyone can give it. My frail body is exhausted by the act of love. Never is it the love I dream of.” I suspect this is how every writer feels about the book they are writing, or the book they have finished, or the manuscript in progress.

I keep wondering what I owe my words in terms of life, or living in the readings of others—- and then distracting myself with the stories of others. . . . Novakovich’s next subtitle, “Messages from the Galaxy of the Dead,” indicates that we will be hearing from Ivan in his posthumous version. Panic seems to be a condition of the dead as well as the living. Ivan’s body is laid out on the table, dressed for the funeral:

Slava and his daughters came to see him. "Daddy is asleep, and won’t wake up anymore," said Slava.

The daughters shrieked.

Ivan was happy. They love me! he thought. Who would have suspect But his enthusiasm slackened as, against his will, he thought that they screamed out of fright— not because of losing him. You can feel the terrifying reality of death when somebody close dies— not necessarily somebody you love but somebody you are used to as a part of your experience. When a part of your experience vanishes from life (to become nothing), you feel that just as that part of your experience vanishes, the totality of your experience— you yourself— will vanish into nothingness. So the daughters may have screamed for themselves.

Ivan tries to interpret the responses of loved ones in a manner that satisfies the hunger for love and recognition that marked him as a child. He wanders towards the naturalization fallacy in an effort to dignify the unthinkable position in which he finds himself.

Friends come to pay their respects. His brother gets into an argument with a friend he knew well in his younger years. The two men begin throwing insults at one another: “Ustasha Croat pig!” “Serb chetnik!” Novakovich gives us the fracture of his own life in the absurd antics near the corpse. “The two childhood friends reverted to childhood and broke into a fist fight, cutting their lips and knocking out porcelain tooth caps, which they then, in a temporary truce, looked for on all fours in the floor cracks.”

The problem of narration hesitates at this edge of the impossible situation Novakovich elected to depict. We are in Ivan’s head but also in the world that refuses the existence of Ivan’s head, or of Ivan. As with life, perhaps, in death, Ivan seeks to be understood.

The wood creaked in various frequencies. Many people gathered in the room, whispering. The hissing of the whispers terrified Ivan, as if a giant octopus's limbs were engulfing him. Some whispers were not whispers, since some people were incapable of whispering. “When did he die? How?”

The corpse named Ivan observes this moment in which some of the main characters involved in his life are gathered to observe the event of his death. He listens: because he cannot respond or speak. He is condemned, as it were, to listening.

Again, he thinks back to childhood:

He thought that around him, out of respect for death, the visitors wouldn't say anything embarrassing—- and honest—- about him. Too bad I can't hear what they really think. Still, aren't I lucky? Most men after dying couldn't hear their wives and daughters cry for them— either for love or terror. And I've heard mine.

Ivan recalled his childhood daydreams about how it would be if he died right then, how sorry his friends would feel for him. He had thought that suicide was worth committing just in order to elicit compassion in his friends, to show him how much they had really loved him. The desire for suicide stemmed from a vague impression that after death you could be present at a gathering of your lamenting friends, at least present through their sorrow, which would lift you into the comforting and succoring oceanic infinity. If you knew that you would be missed among the living, life would become meaningful and lovable, and so would death.

Even as a boy, though, Ivan had known that that line of thought was grounded in bad faith. You'd have to experience it to know.

And now Ivan did experience, and he believed. Even if people didn't talk about him right now, hadn't they organized a party because of him? It was fantastic. Paradisiacal! His life was worth living just for this moment.

I suspect we never get over the fathers . . . but certainly, the fantastic is central to Novakovich’s prose and the stories he tells about the eastern europe that ejected him and so many others.

“As to the fourth method—that of interesting—it also is frequently confused with art. One often hears it said, not only of a poem, a novel, or a picture, but even of a musical work, that it is interesting. What does this mean? To speak of an interesting work of art means either that we receive from a work of art information new to us, or that the work is not fully intelligible and that little by little, and with effort, we arrive at its meaning and experience a certain pleasure in this process of guessing it. In neither case has the interest anything in common with artistic impression. Art aims at infecting people with feelings experienced by the artist. But the mental effort necessary to enable the spectator, listener, or reader to assimilate the new information contained in the work, or to guess the puzzles propounded, by distracting him hinders the infection. And therefore the interestingness of a work not only has nothing to do with its excellence as a work of art, but rather hinders than assists artistic impression.”

— Leo Tolstoy on “interestingness” as a barrier (can’t say I agree with him at all on this)

*

Duane Michaels, A Letter From My Father
Josip Novakovich, “Subterreanean Fugue” (PDF)
Morphine, “Hanging on a Curtain”
Morphine, “Swing It Low”

The "Guilty" demo.

“How can you see your life unless you leave it? It is already late when you wake up inside a question. Pilgrims were people who got the right wish. I'm asking you to study the dark.”

— Anne Carson, The Anthropology of Water

Prior to leaving Europe I was engrossed in presenting psychological studies through the mediumship of forms which I created. Almost immediately upon coming to America it flashed on me that the genius of the modern world is machinery, and that through machinery art ought to find a most vivid expression...

— Francis Picabia, 1915

Francis Picabia’s machine portraits resemble closed systems: forms of being where possibility is automatically limited. Against the porosity of flesh and paper, these portraits give us indeterminate circuits that cannot be understood or penetrated.

De Zayas! De Zayas! (1915) is a caricature of the artist that announces its own emptiness. Picabia’s quotations and text juxtapose an allusion from Xenophon’s Anabasis (“Glimpsing the shores of the Black Sea after their long, arduous retreat from Persia, Xenophon's soldiers burst into cries of 'Thalassa! Thalassa!” ) with rendering of Pont-Euxin in French (“Je suis venu sur les rivages / du Pont-Euxin.” For the soldiers, the sea represents a highway that leads back to their homes.

Francis Picabia. Zayas! De Zayas!, 1915.
Ink on paper.

Following a tortuous journey through war-torn France and across the ocean, Picabia had finally found refuge in New York with his old friends. This greeting— 'De Zayas! De Zayas!,' — echoes the Greek outburst, exhibits the same joy. How to reconcile this quotation with the sewing machine and the machine portrait?

The exclamatory and exuberant expression . . . (I’m riffing here, or trying to find my thoughts) as if uttered by one who has arrived at a place, and needs to announce that arrival. The empty corset withholds the flesh, but it also withholds the representation of the flesh. Costumes only; no human subject with skin in the game.

Is the corset connected by a piece of thread to the bobbin in the upper right corner?

I see it as a bobbin; it evokes the interior of my sewing machine, just as the thread which descends from the corset’s crotch seems connected to interior gears and pulleys that also resemble a sewing machine. Surely that is button. Sewing makes and brings forth: it creates the subject that will be created by the costume, so there is double-creation here, or a duplicity that constitutes the modern subject.

“I have seen you in action and here you are”: this is how I would translate the tiny script located in the upper right corner. The striptease cannot satisfy the viewer?

Francis Picabia, Portrait of a Young American Girl in the State of Nudity (1915)
Ink on paper.

When asked by The New York Times to comment on his work, Picabia replied:

I do not produce the original. You will find no trace of the original in my pictures. Take a picture I painted the other day, while here in New York. I saw what you call your ‘skyscrapers.’ Did I paint the Flatiron Building, the Woolworth Building, when I painted my impression of these ‘skyscrapers’ of your great city? No! I gave you the rush of upward movement, the feeling of those who attempted to build the Tower of Babel— man’s desire to reach the heavens, to achieve infinity.

*

Francis Picabia, Portrait of a Young American Girl in the State of Nudity (1915)
Francis Picabia, Zayas! De Zayas!, (1915)
Louise Nevelson, Ferocious Bull (1942)
P. J. Harvey, “Guilty” (demo)

The letters of Sylvia Warner Townsend and William Maxwell.

Earlier this summer, I snuck away from the house and sat on my favorite hill with a pen, my orange notebook, and The Element of Lavishness: Letters of William Maxwell and Sylvia Townsend Warner, 1938-1978. Warner and Maxwell are irresistible in their arguments, witticisms, and the passing back and forth of vignettes, but — as the epigraph below reveals — the overall tone is one of good faith, mutual admiration, and (for lack of a better word) trust.

Someone abandoned their red cardigan at the foot of my favorite oak. I haunt that tree religiously. What to do with the unplanned and unclaimed flustering red thing?

November 11, 1969

On the day of November 11th, 1969, in the century prior to the one wherein P. and I, between laughter and tears, would select this date to marry, Sylvia began her letter to William Maxwell with the announcement of her longtime partner’s death. “Valentine died on Sunday morning,” Sylvia wrote. “She was deeply under morphine. I was with her to the last and laid her out, helped by our kind Sibyl who had shared the nursing." No stranger's hand touched her fastidious reserve. This evening her coffin was carried out of the house and put in a forget-me-not blue van —which would have surprised her. I heard her spirit laughing beside me.”

After sharing this new way of relating to Valentine, Sylvia feels she has prepared him for what neither could truly know, namely, how she would deal with losing her lover and occasional muse: “I am passionately thankful that she is out and away, and that in a fashion we are back where we were, able to love freely and uncompromised by anxiety and doubtful hopes and miseries of frustration.”

I can hear the rustle of Sylvia’s shoulders turning slightly as she shifts her torso towards the large window and looks out upon the garden, seeking the familiar trees and scenes, noticing a broken birdfeeder, and— finally— failing in this effort to orient herself at home, where ‘home’ indicates the place she shared with Valentine.

(O window, you make her a stranger!)

Sylvia discovers herself molded queerly, rendered as the ghost of Valentine’s love.

On the desk below, the letter lies open. “One thinks one has foreseen every detail of heartbreak . . .” she tells William, “I hadn't. I had not allowed for the anguished compassion and shock of hearing her viola voice changed to a pretty, childish treble, the voice of a sick child.”

“Death transfigured her,” Sylvia says, using a religious word against its usual meaning, asserting the near-irreverence typical of her novels, perhaps even hoping to see what might happen if she can live this one out as text. Like the saints and mystics, Valentine became more beautiful after death: “In a matter of minutes I saw the beauty of her young days reassert itself on her blurred careworn face. It was like something in music, the reestablishment of the original key, the return of the theme. Don't think I am unhappy and alone, dear William. I am not. I am in a new country and she is the compass I travel by.”

November 26, 1969

A few weeks later, Sylvia ended a letter to William by mentioning that Valentine had bequeathed various smile items to William, among them, a clock: “She left you, as well as a folder of S. T. W. and her set of my books, her small table-clock. It chimes hours & half-hours with a pretty treble voice. It must wait to be professionally packed. And a small brooch apiece to Kate and Brookie. 'My two dearest' she says of them: both were given to her by me, love-tokens. These are so small that if you had a flying friend coming to or going from this country, they could be conveyed without adding an ounce to his luggage. Otherwise, they can travel with the clock.”

As for adjusting to the new absence, Sylvia refuses to admit the loss as complete. “No, I am not alone,” she tells him. Valentine is near—a muse to her hours and dreams: “She is more living, more real, than I am myself. She pervades my days. But I can't talk to her, tell her of this thought, that bird which flew by; I cannot consult her, nor ask her to put a new flint into my lighter. These trivia stab my heart. And I can no longer serve her. That is most annihilating of all.”

December 16, 1969

In her letters to William, Sylvia affixes traces of scents and shadows that testify to Valentine’s ongoing presence in the world of the living. But there are lapses, memories, places that conspire to disarm her, as she confides: “With a heart as normal as a stone I went to spend this last weekend with friends in Berkshire because they wanted to change my air. Their telephone rang. It was a telephone on which Valentine had often rung me. With an idiot intensity I thought, She will never telephone me again. And for a moment the whole of my grief was comprised in that deprivation. There is no armour against irrationality.”

They talk about Lord Byron and Proust, the horrifying war against Vietnam, mushrooms and fairies and travels.

March 1970

Less than a year after Valentine’s death, William mentions the clock that Valentine bequeathed to him, a tock that has woven itself into his life, in a lengthy letter to Sylvia. He tells the story with delight, for stories are what they do, these two writers, they imagine and read and study and write: “When I got home with the greatest delicacy I approached the clock, wound it a little, and waited —no, first I set it and was ravished by the little chime, then I wound it and nothing happened. And while I was looking for a lever that could be released and start things, the second hand began to move: it moved twice round the dial, just long enough for me to fall in love with the clock, and stopped. And would not, having captured my heart, do another thing. I went to the phone and called an opera singer who has a clock somewhat like it, which belonged to her Aunt Clara, and therefore it is always referred to as Aunt Clara's Clock, and she said to clasp it to me lovingly as if it were a child and then bend forward so that the child's head touched the floor. I did, and nothing happened. She used to take her clocks to a Swiss firm that was most dependable, but they sold out to a Pole who was not, she said, but if I would bring it to the country we would go together to a man in Croton who is very confident... If there is one thing that fills me with misgivings, it is a clock in the hands of a man who is very confident. So bright and early the next morning I put it in my briefcase and went to Tiffany's, thinking that any number of elegant women, friends of Edith Wharton, must have gone there with just such beautiful mechanisms; and was given a card with the address of a firm on grd Avenue that Tiffany's felt to be most reliable. By now quite late to work, I went back the went to Tiffany's, thinking that any number of elegant women, friends of Edith Wharton, must have gone there with just such beautiful mechanisms; and was given a card with the address of a firm on ard Avenue that Tiffany's felt to be most reliable. By now quite late to work, I went back the way I had come, found the shop, saw at a glance that there was not a timepiece in the place that didn't antedate the sinking of the Titanic, and put Valentine's clock on the counter and the man said ‘How charming!’ Then he turned it sideways once and said ‘I will get in touch with you in a couple of days.’ It is a long time to be separated from something you have just fallen in love with, but at least I have the key, in my left hand coat pocket.”

Something you have just fallen in love with: these words would be confetti to Sylvia. Vietnam enters the conversation, as does terrible policy and the prison-industrial complex. William laments the imbecility endemic to the American political class: “The Attorney General of the United States is asking for permission to take prints of the soles of the feet and specimens of the handwriting of people who might have criminal tendencies. I could have known that we were due for a revival of phrenology. We have had everything else. Pity this unfortunate country.”

Later in the same month, William sends a short note of despair to Sylvia, replying to her statement that she will never write another novel. Look Sylvia, he says: “When you say I feel pretty sure I shall never write another novel, I feel like what Thomas a Buile said in a pub (in the poem by James Stephens). I know that everything you wrote was directed toward Valentine, and that she was your climate, but please don't forget that I am here. If you stop writing you will hurt my feelings terribly.”

April 13, 1970

On my birthdate in April, before I was conceivable to the parties involved in my conception, Sylvia tells William that she is writing again. “I have begun to write again—” she says, before qualifying: “No, not a story, not a novel, and nothing for now. An archive. I found that Valentine had kept quantities of my letters, as I had kept quantities of hers. Reading through them, and putting them into sequence, I realised that it is a notable correspondence and the sort of thing that should be put away in a tin box for posterity. So now I am entirely absorbed in writing the narrative links and explanations and so forth. I am mid-way in the prologue. It is far the best thing I have ever written— and an engrossing agony. I am terrified that I should die before I have finished this. A month ago, it was the only thing I had the least inclination for. And you, dear William, must be the tin box, since it will count as my Literary REMAINS —absurd phrase. It can't be let out till there is a safe margin for every one to be dead in.”

August 2, 1970

The archive of correspondence between herself and Valentine becomes an obsession for Sylvia. In August, she admits this to William. “I am lost to the world in those letters”; and William imagines her face upon reading these words. He recognizes the goulash where ecstasy mingles with self-abandonment, where relinquishment resembles sacrifice, where flavors emerge from the mire of shared boiling.

Absorbed in this project, Sylvia is recognizable, busy, distracted, alive. “Annotations have always been my setting delight,” she tells William. “Some of them, I find, need to be extended into snatches of narrative.” And perhaps she drops a name in order to say what she wanted to say anyway: “David Garnett said to me long ago 'What you write best out is love.’”

November 1970

They joke about winter. William tells Sylvia how deeply touched him to read Valentine’s letters, to linger in the angles of light and resonances of the “supplemental narrative” Sylvia had written to contextualize her lover’s poetry: “The last cluster of letters set me to thinking how there are two fears and most people have one or the other and maybe they are the same fear: that they are afraid to call their soul their own, or that they are afraid it will be seen.”

Exposed souls make us blush. They resemble the curve where the human back meets the ass:

Maxwell wrote his own ghost stories in a manner that permitted him to maintain plausible deniability about his supernal beliefs. But here, on the page that will be read by an ailing Sylvia, William balances friendship’s tandem desires, conversation and kindredship, alongside the hope of comforting her. “The effect of Valentine's letters is of the soul unsheathed,” he writes, “in utter and final fearlessness. I have never read anything like them.” He wants to sound insistent. And his sentences are structured to realize this insistence as he moves from the true thing to the overly-affirming one. William moves quickly, hastily, in a manner that preserves intimacy; the momentum of his compliments doesn’t hesitate or falter. “Such style, and without a moment's thought to it,” he says ofValentine’s poems. “I will never again read the word happiness without thinking of them.” (This can be true and yet too much, as death and friendship tend to be.) “And in the supplemental narrative — what I started to say is that all my life I have been confidently watching you outdo yourself, and you have again, but by so far—the night ride, and the simple summation of all the aspects to her love, simply exceeds, as prose, anything you have ever written,” William tells Sylvia, before attaching the words she most wanted to hear from her dear editor-peer-fan: “It is as if you were possessed.” Amen.

*

Michael A. Steinman, ed., The Element of Lavishness: Letters of William Maxwell and Sylvia Townsend Warner, 1938-1978 (Internet Archive)

Workshop of Silence.

… but I wonder if this constant announcement of pain, putting one's subjection to work isn't a sort of gimmick, a trafficking in a type of disaster capitalism.

— Roger Reeves

under the bridges what springs up rises
out of a name more tragic than the absence
of lovers above

— Jean D’Amérique, “under the bridges what springs (up)

This is to confess my untold delight in the postal service’s delivery of a book titled workshop of silence, containing poems by Jean D’Amérique, as translated by Conor Bracken.

In his translator’s introduction, Bracken notes that Jean D’Amérique’s lived experience is unsettled by the boundaries of nation-states: “As a transnational person who splits his time between Haiti, France, and Belgium, not to mention a Black transnational person transiting through and living in historically white countries, he is subject to the rough, reductive, and at times lethally armed gaze of bureaucracy.” Borders, as written by this poet, “are not meant to be stopped at”; their existence is arbitrary and alienating.

Since D’Amerique began as a slam poet, Bracken says that “retaining this transgressive, playful, and dexterous attention to sound” was one of the primary goals of his translation— a goal that frequently leads him to slight departures from the denotative meaning of the original words. Translation is an art. As such, translators make choices about what to emphasize and convey across languages. Bracken elects the “enlivening of language” that restores “its fundamental slipperiness,” or, in his own words:

It is based as much in play and wit as it is in the political dimensions of the work that he's doing with these poems, which sometimes announces itself without embroidery, as in “moment of silence,”  wherein he situates his poems in the  political tradition of Nazim Hikmet, and at other times is more recondite, as in “under the bridges what springs (up),” where he points out through elaborate wordplay the continued but unexamined presence of the lexicon of shipping and chattel slavery in economic chatter. 

I hear this subversive jouissance trickling upwards through the sap of “solar brass,” a poem that tingled all the way to the tips of my fingertips when I first read it.

solar brass

my rhapsody
a cactus in the night-call’s port

for sale for tropical cents
I am a solar

powered brassy jacket
the horizon
looks punk to me

D’Amérique’s poems have a purpose in daily life: they process the banalities and polish the repetitions.

A day spills between the materials of living as found in the grocery store. . .

poem for running errands

to be recited aloud while
going up and down the aisles

coffee filters
daybreak mouth agape
onions shallots
fresh bread hitched to mornings
omelet of youthfully innocent sun
beans verging on green
dusk

a little olive oil
for sopping up memory grated cheese

poem running against amnesia
don’t stop
until you bail the basket out
and pay the register with tenderness

As if to welcome the small details of the day in each purchase by turning the grocery list into a way of loving the world.

The quantum of D’Amérique’s “building the burden” strikes me as the teens unpack boxes filled with decorations.

building the burden

flesh dressed in awareness when the blade appears
fills the absence we defies

here where the hour
finds the guts to weep for its childhood
the ditch brimes with future
interrogating a life
whose reply is a stele

here is a curtain
an ulcer on the sight
lacking passerby the window’s unfinished

forever metal the mouth exalts the eclipse
parallel sentences brooding over what’s withheld
if you want a burden
take this poem run aground by boundaries

The possibilities inherent in D’Amerique’s poems remind me of the energy inherent to the act of “calling a thing,” which is to both name the thing and to summon it into being while imagining one’s self in relation to it.

[Yes, what is a self? the poet wonders.]

Certainly, a self is something kinned to the selfing described by Roger Reeves in his essay, “Poetry Isn’t Revolution But a Way of Knowing Why It Must Come”:

A self that might like to lie down in a field in the rain and take a nap. A self that might want to cuss and cut up on a Saturday night and go to church on Sunday morning and be holy all in it. A self touching and seeing a self in a way that a self wants to be seen, touched —without the veil. In lowering the veil for our children and for ourselves, we allow them, we allow ourselves, to see, to know, to diagnose power and its abuse. We give ourselves a world, a sound for the sense and tense of our lives.

Building his essay through repetition of a line from Solmaz Sharif’s poem, “Look,” Reeves repeats: “It matters what you call a thing.” And again:

“It matters what you call a thing.” When calling a child child in a Black household, it means so many things. It is calling them love, young, be here with me. It is calling forth a hedge of protection around them not as a way of absconding from danger but because of the awareness of it, because there is no out from danger. In this way, a Black parent is a poet; they call a thing into being. Child. But they have also called their child into language. In this way, a parent is always their child's first poet; an announcement of liberation- “not less of love but expanding / Of love,” to borrow from T. S. Eliot's “Little Gidding.” The parent becomes the child's first instantiation of ecstasy, of know— knowing how to use language, to author, an invisible future into being.

In the year of my unmooring, I could not have imagined that Roger Reeves’ Dark Days would mean everything to me— and this is precisely the joy of it. The reminder that I can be astonished; the muddle in my head turned to mush; the smallest syllables reconnecting into utterances.

And so, what follows is a length excerpt from an essay by Reeves aptly titled, “Reading Fire, Reading the Stars” — because we are still reading the worlds that need imagining in order to inhabit a future. . .

As Frederick Douglass noted in Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, reading promotes an imagining, a worldmaking that can directly and emphatically contradict one's present circumstance, contradict the language weaponized against oneself-slave, three-fifths, chattel, property. When reading, one does not passively receive the words of others, one makes — makes a sentence, makes a paragraph, makes a book, makes a world, makes an argument. One authors. And sometimes in the reading, in the authoring, one creates a counter-narrative and counterargument particularly when reading something like Thomas lefferson's assessment of the poetry of Phillis Wheatley or reading the pathologizing of Black families in the Moynihan Report.

In other words, one makes a possibility, a possibility that hitherto did not exist. In reading (which is also an act of interpretation), one finds language for what is possible, what is untenable about the present, what must persist beyond the present. Reading, therefore, is always an act of making a future, an act of speculation. Even if one is only speculating about what one wants at the grocery store later. I should explain. In graduate school, I took a course on performative rhetorics with a brilliant rhetorician and philosopher named Diane Davis. In the class, we were discussing the prognosticative nature of language, how we never write for who we are but for who we will be; that language is always imagining us in the future. And she gave the great example of the grocery list. We sit down and write a grocery list in order to remind our future self of what the past self wanted. The list anticipates our forgetfulness, our future self being somewhere else, in some other headspace, after waiting for the bus, for example, or working all day. In this way, writing anticipates need, what the future self needs even if, for a moment, unaware.

This is why reading is dangerous— because it points.

Reading points to the necessity of pleasure, of longing, of desire—- even if in the words of others, even if desire is nowhere in the text that one is reading.

Reading itself is desire, desirous, a playing in and with the illicit because reading allows one to occupy a dream, the not-yet inhabited. Reading points to the invisible, to what must be created that doesn't exist.

Reading can also point to what exists but is not always acknowledged—one's freedom, for example.

Again, think of Frederick Douglass—his coming into literacy as an enslaved boy. In the act of resisting his master's desire for him not to learn to read, in disobeying the slave codes that made it illegal for enslaved people to learn how to read, Douglass began to cultivate not just literacy but the stuff of his abolition, his self-making. Reading became the introduction and practice for his personal revolution. Reading helped to prepare Douglass and his imagination for the question, What might my freedom look like? And, the practice of reading helped him answer it. Reading points to that which is against genocide. Or at least the reading I'm interested in doing, the reading that begins on the edges of plantations, in small groups of study, away from the eyes, appetites, laws, and codes of the masters and their policing patrollers; reading that announces the future, reading that disobeys, critiques the present through pointing, pointing away to the swamps and marshes where we might convene something like freedom.

Maybe we begin here— at the end, at what feels like the end of a certain type of America, the end of a certain type of democracy, a certain type of truth or at least an allegiance to it. Maybe this troubling of truth has been the question of art, art in America, all along— how do we begin democracy, how do we extend democracy to all the animals?

And if you can bear one more subjunctive statement, maybe a poem will show us how to begin or extend democracy to all the animals.

(Note: some italics in the excerpt are mine, as is the dissolution of Reeves’ paragraph including the sentences that begin with “Reading” into separate lines or celestial trajectories.)

Sophie Calle.

“Hiding places there are innumerable, escape is only one, but possibilities of escape, again, are as many as hiding places. There is a goal, but no way; what we call a way is hesitation.”

— Franz Kafka, The Blue Octavo Notebooks

*

Decostruttori Postmodernisti, “Gnossienne n°1” by Erik Satie
Decostruttori Postmodernisti, “If the Theremin was Pavarotti”
Eleni Karaindrou, “Ulysses' Gaze”
Jean D’Amérique, workshop of silence, translated by Conor Bracken (Vanderbilt University Press)
Roger Reeves, “Poetry Isn’t Revolution But a Way of Knowing Why It Must Come” (from Dark Days: Fugitive Essays)
Roger Reeves, “Reading Fire, Reading the Stars” (from Dark Days: Fugitive Essays)
Sophie Calle, “Silence”

Listening to music while reading Bataille's "A Story of Rats."

“The problem proliferates in Nabokov, banality and longing chasing each other. Perhaps a real life is not an existence, however solid and undeniable, but the best or most memorable moments of an existence, instants of exaltation or insight, times when the self is most itself: real life rather than mere living. In The Eye, 1930, Nabokov's narrator glosses what is real for him as oppressive and tender, provoking excitement and torment, possessed of blinding possibilities of happiness, with tears, with a warm wind'. Or - we now approach one of the most subtle and urgent suggestions of The Real Life of Sebastian Knight - what is real is the life we lead when we lose ourselves, when we abandon or are driven from the rational fiction of our identity; when we fall in love, for example, and especially when we fall deeply, hopelessly, brutally, stupidly in love.”

— Michael Wood

An overcoat, winter, a man facing no “imaginable” return. A “trembling” he equates to “cowardice.” A specific cowardice, a cowardice suitable for this “half-bearded man” wandering through the ice-cold corridors of train station hotel, “ready to weep,” ready to fall to his knees— there, in a snow-covered nowhere, unable to distinguish between being and not-being, “reduced in this world to that trembling.”

He makes a phone call to the castle whose owner is absent. A voice unmoving (SP?) his absence. A desperation to communicate with this person, to know if he is alive, to tell him that someone alive is calling him. The sound of dishes breaking inside a voice. The moment Bataille felt Kafka understood the “endless time” in writing for the operator to return and confirm no one was there. “Nobody is talking. Nothing can be done.” The line is busy. The person who wants to find the man forgot about the man on the line who seeks him. A series of groans rising from the chest as if from a frozen well. Hopeless. Even “the shadow of hope” is obliterated by this. And the man in the overcoat realizes a liberation: “I was dominated by the idea of knowing — at all costs.”

Snow falling across the station building. Nostrils prickled by the scent of the virgin snow crunching underfoot. The helpless accordion of chattering teeth. The sound emerging from his throat, “tremulous…oh…oh…oh…” – and the cello. The violin. The question of whether to continue and risk losing himself in the snow. The sound of things freezing: the silence of a world whose breath has been turned to ice. The man reminds himself that now, in this condition, “the only thing left for me to do is beyond my strength.” The blinding lashes of wind against the skin of his face. The curse raised “in the darkness against” the black of a “doomsday silence.” The crunching of shoes through ice. Snow quietly covering his tracks. The soothing realization that all bridges to the past had been cut, severed, slashed–there was no recognizable path backwards. Only forward. “In the night.” Only into the building with a lit interior. A body drawn to the heat of the stove, laughing with pleasure. Three railroad workers playing billiards. The bar owner pouring a grog. The humiliation of launching a joke that matches the ambiance. The feeling of degradation, finding oneself “the accessory of these people who expected nothing.” The slow dissociation, becoming “unreal, light,” a species of sight. Existing near a game of football players. Stimulated by caffeine pills and alcohol. Feeling courageous. Leaving the bar and setting out on the road to the castle, encountering the cold air. The stopping of the snow. An absurd “test” now avoidant, but with no metaphysical justification. Not willed by God. Not ordained by a choir of angels. Simply an effort to pursue his own “mania for questioning to the end.” Life gave him oranges. Life gave him what he loved. The world had given and taken away. The wind lifted the snow in small spirals and tunnels. No imaginable way out apart from the castle, the delirium of his days, all energy “strained to the breaking point,” a bit lip, a laugh cutting the air like a cry. “Who knows B’s limits better than I?”

At this inconceivable distance from “the world of calm reflections,” the man in the snow discovers that “unhappiness had that empty, electric sweetness which is like fingernails turned back.” The cold slowly drains his energy. The fact of “desiring” that “miserable” cold — drawing the cold deep into one’s lungs in order to keep moving —  “transfigured these painful moments.” The wind coiling through the surrounding air, tracing a resemblance to that “eternal senseless reality known only once, in the room of a dead woman: a kind of suspended leap.” And so Diane meets Laure in the snow, in the misery of Bataille’s desiring.

*

Claude Debussy’s Les soirs illuminés par l’ardeur du charbon, L. 150
George Bataille, A Story of Rats