In the dry

He'd lost his mind for many years now. His face sunburnt from all that standing in the open, his eyes had narrowed with time, giving him the appearance of a wild man from the steppes, only his eyes were more melancholy if you looked carefully.

For large stretches of the day he would stand by himself by open doorways, shielding himself from the cold, not letting it enter his bones or his thoughts. He would stamp his feet, keeping it at bay, cursing, mumbling to himself as he did so.This is it, this is it. 

The rain would fall for hours. He'd drift in and out of his dreams and the days would not pass or hold anything together. He saw himself from a hundred different perspectives each day: with the eyes of the obese mother with three kids, with the strange looks of the Indian from the bottom of the road; the black man who walked with a cane in his left hand and no shirt on his back..

Our lives, our lives as brief as these images. I nearly said loves...

In summer he put that behind him; he kept his pipe safe in his deep inner pocket and found some green shade under a tree or next to a wall. There is no place to rest my head here...

"Are you from around here?" he was once asked. Not that anyone spoke to him. It was a sentence thrown at him and the feeling of being addressed was so strange that he just glared back in confused silence. Originally?, he asked himself in a childlike voice. 

More so than others, perhaps, but that didn't count now. Around here? People always wanted to know how they got to where they were. What if he only got here by chance, what if that other, aborted life had carried on...His strayed ancestry could be read off his face or maybe his lack of money made him look strange. He saw no-one who looked like himself and often imagined he was shipwrecked, or a man free-floating in space. 

Today, for the first time in a while he had felt there was no need for mirrors or books, so much of his life having being lived in darkness, not really understood. The soul soaring, fading with the seasons, the world still the tent filled with scattered stars...

Shops opened and closed, were boarded up and then wired up. A sign of the times. Small lives were lived out in small ways and stray dogs flitted in and out of his life. Removal vans and ambulances came and passed. Children were born, first words were learned, the Churches emptied and became truer. Was this what it was like to be dead? To see and not be seen?

He looked for dry places to gather himself when the frenzy was too much but there were fewer and fewer as the years passed. The great defeat was upon him, working its way to its inevitable conclusion. It was only a matter of time. Only a matter of time.

What words would be read over him, what faith was left? If he stood still for a while it would come to him unbidden, a long-lost memory of childhood days, of excursions to places where butterflies and books were kept behind glass, of days when he was surrounded by people and could feel the warmth of his father's hand on the back of his head and then, and only then, was he in the dry. 

(The title for this post comes from a great short story by Breece which can be found here )

I imagine all the places I once lived, books and friends and loved ones left behind, the ruined tapes and the music stacked up for safekeeping. Tunes warped, words garbled with the passing of time.

I walk in the fog, past the orange trees and brambles keeping my heart free but I remember less and less each year. I walk lightly and grow older by ten minutes.

A woman/girl once wrote to me and had to use Google translator to understand what I meant. She delighted in finding all these foreign words for time, for the passing of time. I dreamt of her that was dreaming of me, even though there were no words for it.

I walked across the field, the sleepy-eyed yellow roses nodding in their internal drowsiness, the dense fog coagulating into drops of water on thick leaves. I saw myself from a distance, as if walking to get the old sun off my back, out off my eyes. I am alive, even if from afar. If I could speak with God I would say, it's time to speak in plain English, my friend.

I walk without any appointments but can't return to anything. Individual crows follow me unknowingly. All the roads that find their way are knotted or weaved into one single memory, as tangible as the book I hold in my left hand, as real as the lined, empty pages it contains.

(words, borrowed from Darwish).   

In the land of the Pure

“My body was shivering. I saw death so close and I will never forget the black boots approaching me – I felt as though it was death that was approaching me.”

Purity is brutal, cleansing, cathartic.

What can one say? I think there is a growing realization that maybe, just maybe- as the kid says in The Lord of the Flies- "the beast was within". It wasn't the Amrikis, wasn't the Injuns or the Jooos. Just plain old religious folks, tribals, who wanted others to taste what they had tasted, "the pain of their children dying". 

Mimesis: everyone's trying to outdo the other in evil acts.

In Australia there's a saying, apparently, that goes like: 'I'll ride with you'. Well, over here all I want to say is: let me off, I don't want to ride with anyone any more. 

Schuon once wrote: if there's an avalanche, don't walk towards it. There's no courage, no bravery in it. 

~~~

You feel like a Russian aristocrat in a novel who has suddenly realized that his country is fucked and that he will drown along with everyone else, a horrible and meaningless death.

A candlelight vigil with 600 students. Some prayers and a minute's silence is all we can offer. A drunk ex-army officer starts to blabber, with tears in his eyes, pointing to the shrapnel still lodged in his leg. Someone from the crowd shouts, "we are proud of you, Sir". I amble away. It was the army that created this monster in the first place.

a time of gifts, a time to keep silence.

A story book, is what she probably thought. Little r had hidden Fermor's Time to Keep in her shelf, behind the slide. Kids, like primitive communists you imagine, have little understanding of private property. Of course, I hadn't even realized it was missing before she told me. Which reminded you of A, who kept two large leather-bound ledgers of all the books in his library, typed out, you know, in the old way on a type-writer. 

For seven years now A has been living on his own in a one-window room. Is he locked up there against his will? The thought does cross your mind sometimes. He is "getting better" I am told but the only threadbare signs of this are that he occasionally brings his books down to read and watches American sitcoms. But it is more likely the land of the father that keeps things the way they are, binds everyone in this horrible tale. When it comes to land, blood means little. Property disputes can run for centuries down south and whole families are defined by an initial skirmish whose factual truth is only vaguely recalled or understood. Passed down the generations, fragments of a story laced with hatred.

The gates to his house are eerily locked- even in mid-afternoon- and the moronic guard from the village is on strict instructions not to reveal to anyone his whereabouts. 

This extreme seclusion, this need for distancing yourself from everything you'd previously known, so that nothing can take root, like a desert monk, is a form of madness. Not the impulse itself, but it being pushed to the extremity.

~~

But this is my book, don't touch things which aren't yours. Got it?
"Why?"
I have no answer. The most authoritarian answer springs to mind: "Because I said so". An apparently harmless turn of phrase until one says it slowly to oneself. 

Would you like it if T& B came to your room and played with your toys?

"I shared my toys with them last time they came here"

(There is no outfoxing the little devil).

But some things are to keep for yourself, that are only yours.

"Which things?"

||

Our hearts, we keep to ourselves, expecting a singular moment, like a flash of lightning, to reveal our face, for the world to see, or for the contours of our lives to be inked in, the islands defined, or the shape of our heart to be seen without mirrors or glasses, its final form known, spoken by the one who should speak. Oblong, wasn't it?

||||

A few pages snatched at while standing up in front of the gas fire. He writes with the great ease that only comes to those who have a deep familiarity with the language, a sure sense of an abode in the structure and rhythm of the sentences and phrases, its cadences and different registers. He moves through the language in the same way that you move though varying kinds of silence...

on the table

the years radiating

toward the so-called first days,
toward the so-called last days,

inadequate boundaries

of the heart you hold to.

---Duncan.

~~~

A flower. A hand. The hand you've been dealt. The hand that held a flower to me.

The dealer's hand, as old as time itself. The cards are on the table. The days are lost.

I, mortal, that live by chance
and know not [who] you love.

The precision of your hand's gestures. Ancient offerings. A heartbeat lost in the shadow of another. The red and the black, falling, revealing an infidel's heart.

Your eye, skimming for the word, as it hunts the image. Breeze through it, as if word or image could be solace, the solstice of the heart.

The stars through centuries return
rimes of light to burn in this moment's eyes.

The moment anticipated. Found. Understood, registered, taken note of. And now for tea and a biscuit, which I must give up one day.

Are we thrown into the world? How time falls! Chances are parceled out on the rickety, second-hand table-and you wonder to yourself: when was that, and if there was only ever one game in town. The random acts forming no picture. "Take a chance?", she says. Shuffle. Turn. Do you back down? Raise your game, kid, he says, his hand trembling. I'll see you. Yes, no. What have you got that can trump it all, make amends? Diamond heart, a two-faced queen (eye, stone-cold), a lucky seven, a bemused, luckless king, an ace up your sleeve that will outshine the rest? The ruined pattern made whole, perhaps. A late escape, flowering, a second chance. What's the deal: Dark spade, flint-like, to turn the tables or another joker, spoiling your hand?

~~~

The most ironical photo of the year:

square one

'Eating with disciplined excellence is a search for wisdom'
---NYRB.

'Somehow, as if

what's missing left me with a mystery,

its absence makes me love it twice over'

--Walser.

You look inside the room, the plates set, the order of a small and known world. We enter the season with great knowingness. Everything and everyone is in their place. For a moment the cosmos has aligned itself with us. And yet there is a fourth shadow, adding a shroud of stillness to the scene.

Outside the decaying hours of the sun, the first ice forming a fragile latticework over the grass. We laze into the afternoon, glutted on memories of former times and forgetfulness. Without any longing for outside, we are ourselves for a few wasteful hours. 

In this winter light, the light that tarries inside our homes, we see ourselves and others less harshly. Leftovers are cherished, images on the screen from many years ago are so familiar that they enhance the belief that nothing has changed-even if the world has moved on. Black and white photographs held in thick, plush covers are brought down and we wonder where all those people have gone, where are our own lives have disappeared to.

We decline, we refuse. No & Yes in everyone's eyes. The small, the last ritual we hold on to as we unbind everything else. 

Save some space for seconds. We take off our hats and become wise. Our second thoughts: what was all the year's striving for, we wonder. We can't even describe it to ourselves. Some nameless sleep that curls up on itself, an imaginary happiness, perhaps? 

We find ourselves again on deep earth and are not sorrowful.

if not winter

There’s precedent for it. The angular sun on windows or the blustery light through the wind. The leaves and trash raised an inch, dying down, settling again. It gives me great pleasure to view this ancient power fading, to see this orange disc through the latticework of a leafless tree.

Today, a day for gathering: loose money and fresh walnut bread, apples, old white shirts- starched and dry-cleaned. To look at one's own life from afar, as if one were viewing one's hand with a great and mysterious detachment. 

The words we know and the words we don't are mirrored in our gestures. Nothing translates in winter and our heads are filled with second thoughts. My hands are dry and empty. 

A story by Breece sounds hollow,contrived. There is nothing to follow, no letters, no staged performances, just this slim volume, a life condensed within this thin jacket, the imprint of a hand on a windowpane. If this is not winter, then what is?  

[F]

Fragments. Text. Life. No. Yes. That's what is. The blank spaces: not before or after, but now. Don't miss it! [?] Take back the words, undo, unlace it all. 

At the time, that very moment, on the small piece of ground you stood on, shadowless, there was time.

The black sites of the heart.

The reconstruction, the reconstitution of the word from scraps. Glue it together with clumsy fingers: the whole picture is in my mind/heart.

If we had time to see (or see through)the complete sentence, then what?

The dissolving hour, the crumbling of an idea, the folding of a thought. I find a kind of hope in this place where nobody knows me (Robertson). The thinning out, the withdrawal, so that less is said, but with more truth.

Names on envelopes of the places I once lived. The solid-square names I no longer recognize. The hours, the days and weeks, brought into an arc of a life. We half close our eyes to recall what has passed, just as we do when the light is too bright and we need to shield ourselves from the glare. 

On a winter night, with the stars up above fixed, resolute, indestructible, you remember a cold November night from many years ago. When will the true self take a step forward, walk into the bright empty space and not stumble, not speak without faltering? Fractured time, the time of fragments is upon us. It is true today, as it was yesterday, we need the word &.

Beautiful lines from anton/[F]lowerville:

In Grenzwald, his last novel, the depth of time is often compared with water, water through which one can see, transparency, one can see almost through to the ground. It is presented as an insight, time and its depth, a visual metaphor, water, fluid. To become older means to sink deeper into time (= to sink deeper into transparency?). To von Doderer quiet is the actual opposite of death, not activity; quiet carries everything. a quiet described as the sun shining on the roof of life. People suffer but without wanting to explain their suffering, this not being necessary. The few important things in art are to find uneluciated, unknown rooms and spaces in the crowded mines of life. 

I said, hey, babe, take a walk on the wild side...

The flyers fell, Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld said, “like snowflakes in December in Chicago.”

"There’s precedent for it,” Cheney had said. In fact, the history of the trial is inseparable from the histories of evidence, torture, and punishment. An ancient form of adjudication known as trial by ordeal became commonplace after 500 A.D.;...In the end, man is judged by God alone. Trial by ordeal was practiced throughout Latin Christendom. It was a favorite device for trying traitors, slaves, and foreigners. In medieval English law, the ordeal was an appropriate trial for “the foreigner or friendless man.”

Ex Parte Quirin.

The past is often figured as dark, a prison, a tomb; the future, bright, blue sky, a spaceship. This is an inheritance of the Enlightenment, with its faith in progress and reason and law. Part of the terror of September 11th was the gleaming skyscraper become a tomb, the seeming backward march of time, the horror of the unreasonable. What, then, of the assassin become an unmanned flying machine?

---Jill Lepore, The New Yorker.

This all makes for sombre reading. A lot is made of religious violence-and rightly so, in my opinion. It goes without saying that religion, as it now exists, is one of the chief ways in which barbarism and backwardness is furthered in our world (which is not to say that that has always been the case or, indeed, that that is what religion is).

But the big question that never gets asked, the elephant in the room...most of the horrific violence of the 20th century was perpetuated by state powers (think: the Bomb, the Gulags, the Trenches, the Camps). Foucault was on the money: Nazism = state racism.

"Terror", it has to be remembered, was first used in relation to state power. The structure of dominance both supports and is reinforced by economic inequalities. An old question (Dahrendorf): how can there be political democracy without economic democracy?

'Like snowflakes in December in Chicago' is a great title for a book!

the swimmer

'The pool is real enough and is the crux, the truth of a humid afternoon. There are leaves in the water these days. I am the last swimmer. The wind in the leaves is highly vocal. The light is pure and very elegiac. I enjoy swimming at this time of the year. The water is in the sixties. The stones are warm in the sun...'

---Cheever.

|

Don't judge a book by its cover. Why not?

This is an old library book (in English, of course)given to me by a German friend who is on her way back again. Strange, but we had so little time to talk...

A small life, with few moments for reflection. Time passes. Listen. Out of time or just late? The days of our lives are all reflections of a single day. For some childhood is not a stage to be transcended or forgotten.

The arresting lines by Dupuy on Girard on Camus on Mersault: his desire to be left alone, to live a solitary and marginal life [work this in to the Walser/Pessoa theme of 'smallness', 'lostness']..the kind of story that no-one reads. No blurbs, no quotes, no reviews. Swim against the tide or sometimes just let yourself drift with it. At a certain time in your life the clothes fit. 

Absence

No, haven't read any of his poems, but the gentle face makes me want to.

Why does every sentence of yours start with a 'no'? The Welsh and Jewish connection again, no?

||

In the mildew of age
all pavements slope uphill

slow slow
towards an exit.

It's late and light allows
the darkest shadow to be born of it.

Courage, the ventriloquist bird cries
(a little god, he is, censor of language)

remember plain Hardy and dandy Yeats
in their inspired wise pre-dotage.

I, old man, in my new timidity,
think how, profligate, I wasted time

– those yawning postponements on rainy days,
those paperhat hours of benign frivolity.

Now Time wastes me and there's hardly time
to fuss for more vascular speech.

The aspen tree trembles as I do
and there are feathers in the wind.

Quick quick
speak, old parrot,
do I not feed you with my life?

Ways of approaching...

You've watched two films by the much celebrated Pasolini and both have been, to be quite frank, mediocre. There are moments of beauty and tenderness in this one, but overall you have to wonder how much artistic input goes into a film that is full of quotes from the Bible. Yes, the faces are wonderfully expressive but you were hoping for a political/Marxist angle. Perhaps you want to see a film through Muslim or Jewish eyes..

If there was any chance of that then the Gospel according to St. Matthew would have been the best bet (cp. to john, for example). 

On the other hand, it could be the desire to end all politics, competitiveness-as well as the scapegoating of victims that is the cycle of mimentic violence- is what constitutes Christianity's distinctiveness and radicalness. How to live in the world and not be of the world, how to give no thought for the 'morrow. Not by bread alone, and not bread first. No political community is (or can be?) built on love. That kind of inwardness will always set up a barrier to the dominance of the state..the power of the state no longer matters because it isn't real power.

So, in this film there is barely the faintest of hints of Roman occupation. No mention of the zealots. 

In Matthew we see Jesus(pbuh) from very much within a Jewish tradition (Vermes, for example) before St. Paul's understanding of the centrality of 'the risen Christ'takes hold. But what of James, the brother of Jesus or 5:18: not an iota of the law shall be changed? 

||

A far better film was Edvard Munch by the director Peter Watkins. Here the use of words was less direct and therefore employed to greater effect. Which begs the question: what is realism? To depict reality one needs to look at it from an angle-as Tarkovsky does. Ways of approaching. I don't think there can be realism, the 'thing-as-it is, without art, without mirrors, filters.    

old hat

' [t]he live updates, the streaming commentary, the instant video, the on-the-spot reporting, and the tittle-tattle of Twitter...

And then came the blur: hypertext at hyperspeed. It’ll be easy, when someone decides to study this problem carefully, to measure the acceleration of news. Everyone’s either collecting data or providing it, whether they know it or not.'

---Jill Lepore, The New Yorker.

|||...

Blur vs the constant gaze of love.

The death of the heart was prefigured in the glance of the eye, the glance that looked through everything. 

The past is preserved, stored, archived, "mummified", piled up like a heap of ruins-and thereby ceases to be the past.

A thousand songs on your ipod, 10,000 books available on kindle; the British library, Mecca, has 14 million titles. 'One hundred books to read before you die' has, with time, become ten books to read ... 

black eyed dog

'It says somewhere in the Iliad , Blue death closes his eyes.'

'Won't you come and say
If you know the way to blue'

|| ||||   |

The life that went under; cold crystalline sea, diamond of foregtfulness. 

In the evening shade, by the trees, when I didn't speak, then I was true. 'Sadly, a long time ago/my voice fell mute.' Blue is the light that doesn't reach us. In the south, it is said, black becomes lighter, a shadow in summer, a word in parenthesis [ ].

Stage directions. The life of many.

[Exit]

A Late Quartet

 A subtle, intelligent picture with a suitably resonant title,...
---P. French, The Guardian.

How to write about music? How to film it? Is there a decent film that really gets to what music is about? If there is, then this wasn't it. 

Let's start with the subtle bit. This is a crass, cliche-ridden, trivial and grossly childish film. At times you wondered if it wasn't a parody. Keep on mentioning the Op. 131 enough to convince yourself that you're cultured, with delightfully refined sensibilities. You're clearly a league above the rest of the poor sods in hicksville. 

It's not just the wooden performances that grate; it's the fact that the roles assigned to each character are what one might expect from a person with an accounting-mindset, someone who is keenly aware of which formulas will strike the right notes for the upper middle classes: list the character traits of musicians you think will resonate with (or at least be understood by) popular culture. Keep it basic, don't allow any complexity to rear its ugly head. Tick the boxes. The cool, heartless foreigner; the melancholic dark-haired woman; the childish, bumbling fat man ("let's play it by heart"). All very fine and well, but why bring in the music to this story? This could have been the story of any group of four unintelligent people.

A brief affair with a tasty Spanish Flamenco dancer (who is, of course, up for a passionate one-night stand or more because she's introduced to Bartok). If only! (I hear some readers say).

As an aside: why must there be the obligatory sex scene? I don't know how the film ends but if Hoffman had any sense he'd quit the quartet and the Op. 131 and hook up with Passionate-Spanish-Woman. After all, didn't T.S. Eliot say...

And the cliches keep raining down. He explains to his wife that he is "sorry" for this one, grave mistake in a bit of hammy acting that is unsurpassed throughout this quite dire film- which is saying a lot. Then he asks, like a whimpering fool, "do you love me?" To which she replies: "I don't know". 

It seems like no-one really knows anything in this film. Seriously, why bother?

At this stage I gave up, my patience stretched to the limit. One hour of absolute shite when I could have been watching the Arsenal.

"A suitably resonant title"? No kidding, bro'!

French also wrote a review of the appallingly fake film about life in a monastery.

He writes: 'Of Gods and Men is a profound, immaculately acted movie. Its words are carefully considered, its images eloquent. The subject matter is urgently topical, the themes raised eternal and universal'. 

To which one must reply: nonsense on stilts!

no, not in my name.

I have nothing to say and I do not know how to say it.

The brief outline of it is this:

|| 

~~~~

...

[
[

When all is said and done.

Can one choose to be inarticulate? A question to myself. Augustine would have said.

Diary Notes: 

What keeps us a prisoner is not knowing what keeps us a prisoner.

You stumble, you trip. The form of your 'unknowingness'. A word that does not exist!

____

Roxana, are you still alive? 

_ __ __ __

Don't read too much into that.

.

To understand the one point from which the book originates. Once attained, that would exempt him from writing.

--stolen from Vila-Mattas.

In the process of reading, of figuring out. This will probably be written on my gravestone, except that wahabis don't have gravestones! 

Do cockroaches eat ants? Just asking. Today, in the morning, you saw twenty, thirty ants scrambling over the dead body of a cockroach (yes, okay, I admit it, I killed it). 

Is that a kind of justice, or just the circle of life? And why should I intervene-god-like-in the affairs of these creatures?

Is there anyone out there who likes both cinnamon roles and Walser (apart from anton, of course)? In this day and age one must do with just cinnamon rolls, I suppose. I told you I have nothing to say!

The black sun of my room is lit up by artificial lights. White light is-putting my scientific hat on for a mo-bad for you. 

| |

At Heathrow, just before boarding the plane, one of the plain clothed spooks floating about asked me: "How much money are you taking back to __?"

Instinctively I put my hand to my trouser pocket. "Five pounds"

"Are you sure?"

"Perhaps five pounds twenty".

One can get away with a lot if one is vague.


||

On a cheque you write your name four times. Twice on the front, twice on the back.

"Is this your signature?" asks the clerk.

"I've just written it in front of you, haven't I!"

"Do you have proof you are who you say you are?"

Does anyone? This is going to be a long day. But I would love, just once, to sign something not in my name.

Broken People

Arundahti Roy's passionate article can be found here

Shocking stuff. Not an easy read, mind you.

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Back in the land of the pure, two Christians were burned alive for "blasphemy". It is claimed that their legs were broken first so that they couldn't run away and that their bodies were wrapped in cotton so that they would burn more easily.

Are human beings really the apex of creation? What about Penguins? And does that make Beethoven's late quartets less or more sublime, or neither?

Time of no reply

MISJA FITZGERALD MICHEL - Time of no reply (by... by No_format

Thanks to Bob, for pointing me here.

Continuing the Fitzgerald theme.

|

All those years of silence, rolled into a few words. There was little left to say, or what he did say didn't sound like himself. 

||

Bob is 'the music box' under 'people', by the way. A rare bird who still stands (stands still) for what he believes in. Of course, what one stands for is also important, or else every Talib would be virtuous. 

What do I mean-to use that awful word? 'Meaning' is usually employed to try and avoid confusion, after it's already set in: "what do you mean?" But if it means anything then it is the meeting of subjectivity with that which is objectively beautiful and true. 

||

What do you remember? Something very old, the slow notes, a kind of sadness. The further you go back, the larger the circle is. In another sense, though, there is only one journey home. All else is a distant-and beautiful-remembrance or shadow of the past. 

A line from the Qur'an, from memory: 'If a wound hath befallen you, a wound like that had befallen others before you'.

The meaning is not in the exact words or their sequence. Surely we will be forgiven for our bad timing? 

Ubo, my Jew, said: promise me one thing."Yeah, sure. Name it?" Never grow old. 

How to keep time when everything is lost? Shikast: when time is broken, a broken circle.

|| |

Why does everything come to you late, b? They get to you, or you get to them,late? 

'And love arrived may find us somewhere else'
---E. Jennings.

From childhood, a useless wooden letter holder had the words-in bold italic- written on it: 'It's later than you think'. Charming!

Today, for the first time, I listened to the late quartets. It just feels like the playing is slow, from another time. How do you, with the resources at hand (which always have the fingerprint of historical time,) find that which is timeless? I wonder if the tempo of life is too fast for some people, for me? children and old people are always out of time. We miss much. If you knew a few notes, really knew, you could name that tune in four, five maybe, for the whole is in the parts, "now".

|

The best thing about Sacks's wonderful story about Clive is the warmth of his voice. The man with a seven second memory. A few stepping stones and beyond that the abyss. Of course, in many ways capitalism generates the same disruption of narrative. Everything must begin again and the past is nothing but the pastime, something to be packaged or consumed by the heritage industry.

What holds us together if not love, if not the memory of love?

'When memory is of the future'
--J.Riley.

Through memory we become who we are.

He knew where he was by all that was implied in a gesture, all that was not said.

Where is that place, when is that time, when finally where you are what you are?

the bookshop

“I’m not asking if we’ve forgotten how to be Jewish,” he said, “but if we’ve forgotten how to be human.”
---Rivlin.

We have our books, but we have forgotten how to read.

|||

'The more I come into contact with these spheres of legitimacy or respectability, the more I feel a disjunction between how I identify and the contexts that I exist in.'

J. Wang, via anton.

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Why should you think that a man would be a better judge of these things than a woman?'

I don't know that men are better judges than women, said Florence, but they spend much less time regretting their decisions.

---P. Fitzgerald.

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There is something strangely wonderful about defeat-as long as it isn't total defeat and as long as one come out intact and it's this: one realizes that 'success' is not what it's about. To find oneself in the time one is in (Merton) is also to stand opposed to the times (Saint Paul), To be not conformed to time is to find one's own time..the time that remains, after all the subtractions.