My Grandmother’s Love Letters
There are no stars tonight
But those of memory.
Yet how much room for memory there is
In the loose girdle of soft rain.
There is even room enough
For the letters of my mother’s mother,
That have been pressed so long
Into a corner of the roof
That they are brown and soft,
And liable to melt as snow.
Over the greatness of such space
Steps must be gentle.
It is all hung by an invisible white hair.
It trembles as birch limbs webbing the air.
And I ask myself:
“Are your fingers long enough to play
Old keys that are but echoes:
Is the silence strong enough
To carry back the music to its source
And back to you again
As though to her?”
Yet I would lead my grandmother by the hand
Through much of what she would not understand;
And so I stumble. And the rain continues on the roof
With such a sound of gently pitying laughter.
— Hart Crane (via i12bent)
“Curiosity is insubordination in its purest form.”
, a multilingual Russian novelist, poet and short story writer (1899-1977), cited in Azar Nafisi, Reading Lolita in Tehran
, 2003. Illustration
Pablo Picasso by Uncredited Photographer, 1915
“Art is the lie that enables us to realize the truth.” — Pablo Picasso
Stare. It is the way to educate your eye, and more. Stare, pry, listen, eavesdrop. Die knowing something. You are not here long.
Corner of State and Randolph Streets, Chicago 1946 photographer Walker Evans
It’s funny, but certain faces seem to go in and out of style. You look at old photographs and everybody has a certain look to them, almost as if they’re related. Look at pictures from ten years later and you can see that there’s a new kind of face starting to predominate, and that the old faces are fading away and vanishing, never to be seen again.
“What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night…the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.”
—Chief Crowfoot of the Blackfoot Confederation, 1890. Quoted from “In Search of Darkness” by Holly Haworth in the new Spring 2012 issue: “BurningWorld.” From parabola-magazine.
I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still. — Arthur Rimbaud, Alchemy of the Word
Some people like what you do, some people hate what you do, but most people simply don’t give a damn. —Charles Bukowski