Thursday, December 21, 2017

Friday, March 3, 2017

Thursday, December 1, 2016

Incantation in repetition.

Proud to see my Schrift-Landschaften published by
the very fine Epidote Press.

Pictured here as displayed by the always wonderful NIEMAND.

Wednesday, July 15, 2015

grace of certain things.

But certainly, he came more and more to be unable to care for, or think of soul but as in an actual body, or of any world but that wherein are water and trees, and where men and women look, so or so, and press actual hands. It was the trick even his pity learned, fastening those who suffered in anywise to his affections by a kind of sensible attachments. He would think of Julian, fallen into incurable sickness, as spoiled in the sweet blossom of his skin like pale amber, and his honey-like hair; of Cecil, early dead, as cut off from the lilies, from golden summer days, from women’s voices; and then what comforted him a little was the thought of the turning of the child’s flesh to violets in the turf above him. 

- The Child in the House In: Selected Writings of Walter Pater, Ed. Harold Bloom, Columbia University Press 1974

- Stefan Lochner (1410-1451), Madonna mit dem Veilchen, Detail.

Sunday, March 15, 2015

Inferences I. 
Text fragment: Walter Benjamin.

Thursday, October 9, 2014

eternally established.


...the principle that children tell little more than animals,

for what comes to them they accept as eternally established.

- Edmund Wilson, The Wound and the Bow    

- Robert Bresson, Au Hasard Balthazar

Monday, September 15, 2014

stones and flowers.

It was so utterly wonderful to find I could go so heartily & headily mad; for you know I had been priding myself on my peculiar sanity! And it was more wonderful yet to find the madness made up into things so dreadful, out of things so trivial. One of the most provoking and disagreeable spectres was developed out of the firelight on my mahogany bedpost - and my fate, for all futurity, seemed continually to turn on the humor of dark personages who were materially nothing but stains of damp on the ceiling. But the sorrowfullest part of the matter was, and is, that while my illness at Matlock encouraged me by all its dreams in after work, this one has done nothing but humiliate and terrify me; and leaves me nearly unable to speak any more except of the natures of stones and flowers.

- John Ruskin, from a letter to Thomas Carlyle, 23 June 1878
- Pressed flower from Rosa Luxemburg's Breslau Penitentiary Herbarium. In: Rosa's Letters. Mousse  Publishing,   2011

Thursday, September 4, 2014

among the facts of the world.

In Walser, an absolute sense of decency about language does not let agony express itself. The reality is made manifest, the fact of agony, not agony. It is necessary to speak of things, not of words. Marvelously, everything that is utterable is said when one simply states the case.

- Massimo Cacciari, Songs of the Departed in POSTHUMOUS PEOPLE. Vienna at the Turning PointStanford University Press, 1996
- Walser in Herisau, 1949 image taken from 50 Watts

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

Saturday, February 22, 2014

sometimes a balm.

In 1883, an earthquake that lasted ninety seconds shook the south of Italy. In that earthquake, he lost his parents and his sister; he himself was buried by rubble. Two or three hours later, he was rescued. To ward off total despair, he resolved to think about the Universe - a general procedure among the unfortunate, and sometimes a balm.

Jorge Luis Borges - Benedetto Croce 

Image - herbert pfostl rescue emblem

Friday, May 3, 2013

kleist - arch.

On the evening before that most important day of my life, in Würzburg, I went for a walk. When the sun went down, it seemed as though my happiness were sinking with it. I was horrified to think that I might be forced to part with everything, everything of importance to me. I was walking back to the city, lost in my own thoughts, through an arched gateway. Why, I asked myself, does this arch not collapse, since after all it has no support? It remains standing, I answered, because all the stones want to fall down at the same time - and from this thought I derived an indescribable heartening consolation, which stayed with me right up to the decisive moment: I too would not collapse, even if all my support were removed.

Heinrich von Kleist, Letter to Wilhelmine von Zenge, November 16, 18, 1800

Image: Ravenna, Kirche San Vitale. Geweiht 547, byzantinisch. Kapitell im Chor.

Saturday, April 13, 2013

tell them I've had a wonderful life.

At the age of ten he constructed a working model of a sewing machine out of bits of wood and wire.

It was not true that he couldn't hear, simply that he wouldn't listen.

He took The Brothers Karamazov to the front.

Continued to wear his uniform for many years after the war.

His sense of humor was "heavy".

And this is how it is: if only you do not try to utter what is unutterable then nothing gets lost. But the unutterable will be - unutterably - contained in what has been uttered!

I am not a religious man but I cannot help seeing every problem from a religious point of view.

What we say will be easy, but to know why we say it will be very difficult.

The solution of the problem of life is to be seen in the disappearance of the problem.

The inexpressible (that which seems mysterious to me, geheimnisvoll, and that I am not capable of expressing) provides the ground upon which all that I am able to express acquires meaning.

The sense of the world must lie outside the world.

What is good is also divine. Queer as it sounds, that sums up my ethics.

A whole generation of disciples was able to take Wittgenstein for a positivist because he has something of enormous importance in common with the positivists: he draws the line between what we can speak about and what we must be silent about just as they do. The difference is only that they have nothing to be silent about. Positivism holds - and this is its essence - that what we can speak about is all that matters in life. Whereas Wittgenstein passionately believes that all that really matters in human life is precisely what, in his view, we must be silent about. (Paul Engelmann)

I ought to have done something positive with my life, to have become a star in the sky.

His last words were:  "Tell them I've had a wonderful life."

- Text and images from:
Ludwig Wittgenstein The Duty of Genius by Ray Monk 
Letters from Ludwig Wittgenstein with a Memoir by Paul Engelmann

Saturday, March 9, 2013

to disinvent.

I should like to erect here a modest stele to the memory of Sir Arthur Helps (1813-1875), a secretary and confidant of Queen Victoria. It was probably he who invented the marvelously useful verb to disinvent. The only illustration of this word in the Oxford English Dictionary (Vol. III) is a quotation from Helps dated 1868: "I would disinvent telegraphic communication." The word is not listed in Vol. I of the Supplement (1972), but a recent use will be found s.v. fantasy in the same volume. If I were younger, I would found the Coverers' and Disinventors' Club.

Erwin Chargaff, HERACLITEAN FIRE. Sketches from a Life before Nature.
(Footnote in the Trembling of the Balance chapter)
Image from the German edition: Das Feuer des Heraklit (KLETT-COTTA, Vierte Auflage, 1988)

Thursday, February 14, 2013



The Stars. Blue. Expanse.
Flaming song of stars!
A million nightingales are singing.
Springtide light is flashing.
Myriads of eyelashes are flaring up in quivers.
The green happiness of spring-night banquets
Commences its own rutting shine.
Balmy showers take their magic turn:
Millions of nightingales are singing.
Do I recognize a friendly ghost?
I will earnestly contend for it.
The sign wants to be carved into perceiving:
Who knows when my dream-life will be blazing?
Ghosts resemble our gentle animals,
They are fast to sense the nature of attraction.
They heave and hover and weave about
And keep us very gingerly under their spell.
I do not want to lose this light-swarming silence.
An old theurgy must stir here soon from gentleness.
Millions of nightingales are singing.
Kindred voices are urging us through the night.
It seems a moon is smoldering arcanely.
But the night she is too warm, so full of breathing pleasure!
Myriads of sparks fly as if in rut to seek each other.
They whirr back and forth and yet still as a part of spring.
The ghost of spring, the ghost of spring is prowling in the wood-lot!
The broad-leaved forest can wander and anticipate itself,
It sways and waltzes to all the old ways of transformation;
The night is laughing: Big Dipper's daring, Libra is keeping watch.
Here are flashing myriads of dance-besotted queries -
Millions of nightingales are singing.

Millionen Nachtigallen Schlagen
Translated from Theodor Däubler's DAS STERNENKIND.
For my Kirston, on this day, and for bringing his book to me.

An edition of Däubler's poems in letterpress available from us soon. 

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

every log that falls.

The successive thump of logs on the paving of the courtyards. They were unloaded from carts, house by house, as the cold weather loomed. The wood fell on the ground and announced winter. Baudelaire stayed awake. There was no need of anything else but that sound - dull, repetitive. The sun already knows that soon it will be imprisoned "in its polar inferno." It is as if auscultating labored breathing: "Trembling. I listen to every log that falls."

Anatole France, with the amiable skepticism that sometimes prevented him from understanding, recounted that one day a sailor showed Baudelaire an African fetish, "a monstrous little head carved out of a piece of wood by a poor negro." It's really ugly, said the sailor. And he threw it away in scorn. "Watch out!" said Baudelaire anxiously. "It might be the one true god!" It was his firmest declaration of faith.

The two last fragments from LA FOLIE BAUDELAIRE 
by Roberto Calasso
(Image: Félix Nadar - Charles Baudelaire au Fauteuil, 1855 - Paris, Musée d'Orsay)

Monday, June 4, 2012

Tuesday, December 27, 2011

the forsaken toys of others.

Your letter has drawn me from the solitude in which I had shut myself up for nearly nine months, and from which I found it hard to stir. You will not guess what I have been about. I will tell you for such things do not happen every day. I have been making a list of from two to three hundred radical words of the Russian language, and have had them translated into as many languages and jargons as I could find. Their number exceeds already the second hundred. Every day I took one of these words and wrote it out in all the languages which I could collect. This has taught me that Celtic is like the Ostiakian: that what means sky in one language means cloud, fog, vault, in others; that the word God in certain dialects means Good, the Highest, in others, sun or fire...I asked Professor Pallas to come to me, and after making an honest confession of my sin, we agreed to publish these collections, and thus make them useful to those who like to occupy themselves with the forsaken toys of others.

- Letter from Catherine the Great, dated 9 May 1785, from Curious Versions of Modernity, D.l. Martin, MIT Press 2011

Friday, October 21, 2011


...der Heilige gibt den halben Mantel, die Gottheit den ganzen Schleier.

...the holy man gives half of his coat, divinity the whole veil.

- Franz Hessel, Ermunterung zum Genuss.
- Southern Netherlands, Reliquary of the Virgin's Veil, early 15th century, detail

thank you, woolgathersome, for bringing this image to me.

Saturday, October 15, 2011

a vagabond melancholy.

There on the pier, stabbed by an ice pick, the Empress Elizabeth, symbol of the oldest European monarchy, which must die at the villainous hand. The contemptible Lucheni raved about making noise and killing someone in the public eye. But it was really the enduring vagabond melancholy of Elizabeth Wittelsbach that, in the mysterious dialogue of souls, summoned the madman to Geneva from Piedmont and anointed him as her assassin. For that matter, even the Italian government was a Lucheni. (Perhaps in its death wish, Vienna itself summoned him.)

- Guido Ceronetti, The Silence of the Body

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

such moments in gestures.

I have read now quickly, now slowly through the whole of your wonderful book.

What at first would appear to be an Ars Morendi
Suddenly shifts into alternative contemplations
On history, literature, religion:
All products of the Self.

The resonance is of one who, because of age,
Contemplates his own mortality
And tries to persuade himself
That though the end is the end
Life is not pointless.

The art of book-making shines on every page
Reflecting the author’s own claim to immortality
With rare choices and artful placement
On beautiful paper softly radiating a luminous sepia.

- Glenn Watkins on To Die No More

Glenn Watkins is the coeditor of the complete works of Gesualdo and author of Gesualdo: The Man and His Music (1973) and The Gesualdo Hex: Music, Myth and Memory (2010). He is also the author of Soundings: Music in the 20th Century (1988); Pyramids at the Louvre (1994); and Proof Through the Night: Music and the Great War (2003).