A wet fingertip on a window pane

“Music is the ambition of certain parts to take over the whole,
to command everything, replace everything – An art of spasms, of marking time, of shivering and shaking, of catching of breath, of fluttering heart, of feigning energy without bound, of abysses, of limitless doubts, of vexations and heartbreaks,… yet an art of lies of echolalia, of idiotic mimicry, of thwarted and to its humiliation, utilised.

The ideal of music is not far removed from the unbearable omnipotence
of a wet fingertip on a window pane.

– from “Tabulae meae Tentationum”, Paul Valéry 1897-1899 –

 

After reading the notebooks from Paul Valéry, the sentences from the world-renowned writers got plain and lost taste.

Destiny

“A poem must be a holiday of Mind. It can be nothing else.

One discards its poverty, its weaknesses, its everydayness.
One organizes all the possibilities of language. 

The holiday over, nothing must remain. Ashes, trampled garlands.”

– Paul Valéry –

When I meet a shower, a lightning, a rainbow… and a vibrating poem… I know what it feels like… it doesn’t belong to the earth… feet off the ground… leave them there, just for a while, just for a little longer.

Standing on a tightrope

“this is how I got started on my present difficult career,
innocently stepping onto the tightrope upon which I move painfully forward, unsure of reaching the end. In other words, I became an artist, 

I felt infinite strengths within me; all I had to do was find a way to use them.
It was not poverty that got in my way: in Africa, the sun and the sea cost nothing.
The obstacle lay rather in prejudice and stupidity.”

– in Preface of “The Wrong  Side and The Right Side”, Albert Camus, 1958 –

 

I envy his sun and ocean… always.

A taste

“You tasted it. Isn’t that enough? …
That’s all we’re given in life, that’s all we’re given of life.
A taste. There is no more.”

– in “The Dying Animal”, Philip Roth –

 

He can’t stop there, just tasting… tasting the very life far more than he deserves to savor …every bit of it. The bastard cut off the very thing he worshiped to replace the anguish of longing with the pain of loss… the selfish animal, a coward, I’ll say.

How calm the hour is… do not go back to sleep

“Render enigma to enigma, enigma for enigma.
Lift what is mystery in yourself to what is mystery in itself.
There is something in you that is equal to what surpasses you.”

– Paul Valéry –

The things that I love torture my soul, but tremendous energy is in there. That is equal to me, surpasses me, and nullifies me.

Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter at all.

“…
If a person sits long enough in a cafe, the fear settles down and waits.
And the next day it’s already right there at the same table.


You don’t understand how your own heart beats inside you. Inside the hare beats the heart of the earth, that’s why we are Gypsies, because we understand that, sir,
that’s why we’re always on the run.”

– in “the fox was ever hunter” by Herta Müller –

I’m not the fan of the political novel, but her clean prose is just too beautiful and extraordinary to pass… like the poem… I have to read again and again, and again.

hopelessly hopeful unrealistic visceralists

img-72581.jpeg

“And the colors?

 

 


a shitty abstraction what’s left.”

 

 

“And then Norman said: it has nothing to do with the visceral realists, asshole, you haven’t understood a thing. And I said: well, what does it have to do with, then? And Norman, to my relief, stopped looking at me and concentrated on the road for a few minutes, and then he said: it has to do with life, with what we lose without knowing it, and what we can regain.

– in “The Savage Detectives, by Roberto Bolaño – 

It is my sickness that I am always drawn to the beauty of uncurable sadness… and I am almost jealous over their purposefully purposeless blind passion for life.