quarta-feira, 31 de março de 2010

Emily’s habitual spelling of this word,
has caused confusion.
For example

in the first line of the poem printed Tell me, whether, is it winter?
in the Shakespeare Head edition.
But whacher is what she wrote.

Whacher is what she was.
She whached God and humans and moor wind and open night.
She whached eyes, stars, inside, outside, actual weather.

She whached the bars of time, which broke.
She whached the poor core of the world,
wide open.
The Glass Essay, Anne Carson

Un homme et une femme, Claude Lelouche

Sun Was High (So Was I), Best Coast

once a minute over the twelve.
I have Emily p. 216 propped open on the sugarbowl
but am covertly watching my mother.

A thousand questions hit my eyes from the inside.
My mother is studying her lettuce.
I turn to p. 217.

“In my flight through the kitchen I knocked over Hareton
who was hanging a litter of puppies
from a chairback in the doorway. . . .”
The Glass Essay, Anne Carson
She lives on a moor in the north.
She lives alone.
Spring opens like a blade there.
I travel all day on trains and bring a lot of books—

some for my mother, some for me
including The Collected Works Of Emily Brontë.
This is my favourite author.

Also my main fear, which I mean to confront.
Whenever I visit my mother
I feel I am turning into Emily Brontë,

my lonely life around me like a moor,
my ungainly body stumping over the mud flats with a look of transformation
that dies when I come in the kitchen door.
What meat is it, Emily, we need?
The Glass Essay, Anne Carson

I was as sensitive as the waters are
To the sky's influence in a kindred mood
Of passion;
The Prelude, William Wordsworth

terça-feira, 30 de março de 2010

G de Graça

I know not how it falls on me - V

segunda-feira, 29 de março de 2010

I laughed with Chaucer in the hawthorn shade
The Prelude, William Wordsworth
F de Fiama

He [Leslie Stephen] must have put on his clothes automatically, to the sound of poetry, I expect.
Sketch of the Past, Virginia Woolf
Às vezes as coisas dentro de nós

O que nos chama para dentro de nós mesmos
é uma vaga de luz, um pavio, uma sombra incerta.
Qualquer coisa que nos muda a escala do olhar
e nos torna piedosos, como quem já tem fé.
Nós que tivemos a vagarosa alegria repartida
pelo movimento, pela forma, pelo nome,
voltamos ao zero irradiante, ao ver
o que foi grande, o que foi pequeno, aliás
o que não tem tamanho, mas está agora
engrandecido dentro do novo olhar.
Às vezes as coisas dentro de nós, Fiama Hasse Pais Brandão
The Little Disturbances of Man - II

domingo, 28 de março de 2010

sexta-feira, 26 de março de 2010

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
The Stolen Child, William Butler Yeats
The Little Disturbances of Man - I


Poor Rosie! If there was more life in my little sister, she would know my heart is a regular college of feelings and there is such information between my corset and me that her whole married life is a kindergarten.
Goodbye and Good Luck, Grace Paley


quinta-feira, 25 de março de 2010

Rainy Day Women
But smiles, as by habit taught;
And sighs, as by custom led;
And the soul within is safe from damnation,
Since it is dead.

At Ease, Walter de la Mare
Come moth, come shadow, the world is dead
Alone, Walter de la Mare

Fair are the blossoming meads of delight through which we stray
Wanderers, Walter de la Mare

Lucian Freud, Girl with a White Dog, 1950-51
My parents were awesome

quarta-feira, 24 de março de 2010

The past only comes back when the present runs so smoothly that it is like the sliding surface of a deep river. Then one sees through the surface to the depths. In those moments I find one of my greatest satisfactions, not that I am thinking of the past; but that it is then that I am living most fully in the present. For the present when backed by the past is a thousand times deeper than the present when it presses so close that you can feel nothing else, when the film on the camera reaches only the eye. But to feel the present sliding over the depths of the past, peace is necessary. The present must be smooth, habitual. For this reason - that it destroys the fullness of life - any break - like that of house moving - causes me extreme distress; it breaks; it shallows; it turns the depth into hard thin splinters... I write this partly in order to recover my sense of the present by getting the past to shadow this broken surface. Let me then, like a child advancing with bare feet into a cold river, descend again into that stream.
Sketch of the Past, Virginia Woolf
I know not how it falls on me - IV

terça-feira, 23 de março de 2010

No one could have understood from what I said the queer feeling I had in the hot grass, that poetry was coming true.
Sketch of the Past, Virginia Woolf
She fell head over ears in love with him.

She had her own sorrow waiting behind her to dip into privately.
Sketch of the Past, Virginia Woolf
Then one day walking round Tavistock Square I made up, as I sometimes make up my books, To the Lighthouse; in a great, apparently involuntary, rush. One thing burst into another. Blowing bubbles out of a pipe gives the feeling of the rapid crowd of ideas and scenes which blew out of my mind, so that my lips seemed syllabling of their own accord as I walked. What blew the bubbles? Why then? I have no notion. But I wrote the book very quickly; and when it was written, I ceased to be obsessed by my mother. I no longer hear her voice; I do not see her.
Sketch of the Past, Virginia Woolf

segunda-feira, 22 de março de 2010

I seemed to be dragged down, hopelessly, into some pit of absolute despair from which I could not escape.
Sketch of the Past, Virginia Woolf

sábado, 20 de março de 2010

sexta-feira, 19 de março de 2010