the remembrance of lost things

There is a way out, I know-a phrase, a memory, an anecdote, a word-but I am unable at the moment to find it.

---Cheever.

||

The end of language: blah, blah, blah.

'In a context where injustice and narrow judgement prevail in economic relations, language itself becomes stale or dead...We depend on others generating this living speech...the silence of cynicism is the diabolical mirror image of the silence that comes on the far side of the most creative speech. 

You might as well say x as say y: everything is exchangeable.

Paying the right kind of attention to the corruptions of language in our age is inseparable from attending the corruptions of our economic exchanges; and it is no less a religious obligation.'

--Rowan Williams.

|

There are certain images, words, too, that you keep with you, for keepsake, that somehow you hold on to, and that keep a hold on you. In the times we live in there is no time for the ritual of remembrance; instead, it is only a dream-sense that comes unbidden, the way the light reflects on high eastern windows, as it always does, at this time of the year.

I give you my word. Is our lack of trust in words a reflection of our lack of trust in people?

We search, stumble and perhaps find a green thought in a green shade; we look back and find, to our amazement, that the 'long love' of the heart has not passed.

ruffu