Showing posts with label excerpt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label excerpt. Show all posts

17.4.11

details


In a story called "Vermont" there was a description of several objects on a mantelpiece -- keys, a hat, a can of peaches, and roaches. And [William] Shawn wrote, on page five, "Roach appeared page two, has not moved in three pages?" And Roger had to say, "Mr. Shawn, a roach: a stub of marijuana cigarette."
- Anne Beattie interview with the Paris Review

23.3.11

Liz


From: Los Angeles Times

"Coincidence to be sure, but Elizabeth Taylor's death Wednesday morning at 79 coincides with Nowruz, sometimes called "Persian New Year." Beginning on the first day of spring and lasting for 13 days, Nowruz -- "New Day" -- celebrates the start of nature's annual cycle.

In the summer of 1976, photographer Firooz Zahedi was himself beginning something new when, as a relatively recent graduate from Washington's Corcoran School of Art, the aspiring young artist accompanied Taylor to Iran. Zahedi photographed the acclaimed 44-year-old actress -- and extraordinary beauty -- in the cities of Persepolis, the ceremonial capital of ancient Persia's Achaemenid Empire; the garden-city of Shiraz; and, finally, architecturally splendid Isfahan.
Those pictures, never before shown together, are on view at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. Zahedi, now a well-known commercial and Hollywood photographer, explains the unusual circumstances of the expedition in this short video, produced by the museum for "Elizabeth Taylor in Iran: Photographs by Firooz Zahedi." The show remains in the fourth floor galleries of LACMA's Ahmanson Building through June 12."

19.2.11

wings

So my friend Mina is in town from Peterborough, which for us means too much wine and funny shared anecdotes.
She also shared this pretty much perfect piece of poetry with me, which we had with tea and chocolate:


Matisse - Icarus

THIS HEAVY CRAFT

P.K. Page


The wax has melted
but the dream of flight
persists.
I, Icarus, though grounded
in my flesh
have one bright section in me
where a bird
night after starry night
while I'm asleep
unfolds its phantom wings
and practices.



10.2.11

23.1.11

. . .



Gabriel Rossetti did 
matter’d “a damn,” 
privately pictured him
sweeping inconstant fingers
over “the heart-
strings of innumerable
hearts,”

. . . 

25.12.10

a poet less known



"سپیده دم است

نشسته‌ام و مرگ را معماری می‌‌کنم"

 - بهرام اردبیلی


It's dawn
And I'm sitting here, architecting death

Bahram Ardebili -


5.9.10

Your first and last name, please.



She drops the towel as the bored man explains to her why he has called her, and she interrupts him without listening, saying that she is going to pay the balance with her credit card right away. She is in her kitchen now, looking for the pickle jar amid the mountain of leftovers in the fridge.
“Great. Now for security purposes, what is your full name? And password?”
“It’s . . . Ummm. It is . . .”
She can’t find the jar, for god’s sake.
“Miss?”
She finds it. Half empty, but there is still a few left.
“What? Oh. Yah. Ummm . . . What was the question again?”
“Your first and last name, please?”
She drops the jar. The liquid splashes all over the floor and her body, as the shattered glass disperse harmoniously.
Stoically still, she hangs up the phone and holds her breath and stares at that unfortunate scene. “What the Fuck,” she whispers.
“What the Fuck is my name?”

30.12.09


STORIES OF MR. KEUNER
If Sharks were Men



by Bertold Brecht

"If sharks were men," Mr. Keuner was asked by his landlady's little girl, "would they be nicer to the little fishes?"

"Certainly," he said. "If sharks were men, they would build enormous boxes in the ocean for the little fish, with all kinds of food inside, both vegetable and animal. They would take care that the boxes always had fresh water, and in general they would make all kinds of sanitary arrangements. If, for example, a little fish were to injure a fin, it would immediately be bandaged, so that it would not die and be lost to the sharks before its time. So that the little fish would not become melancholy, there would be big water festivals from time to time; because cheerful fish taste better than melancholy ones.

"There would, of course, also be schools in the big boxes. In these schools the little fish would learn how to swim into the sharks' jaws. They would need to know geography, for example, so that they could find the big sharks, who lie idly around somewhere. The principal subject would, of course, be the moral education of the little fish. They would be taught that it would be the best and most beautiful thing in the world if a little fish sacrificed itself cheerfully and that they all had to believe the sharks, especially when the latter said they were providing for a beautiful future. The little fish would be taught that this future is assured only if they learned obedience. The little fish had to beware of all base, materialist, egotistical and Marxist inclinations, and if one of their number betrayed such inclinations they had to report it to the sharks immediately.

"If sharks were men, they would, of course, also wage wars against one another, in order to conquer other fish boxes and other little fish. The wars would be waged by their own little fish. They would teach their little fish that there was an enormous difference between themselves and the little fish belonging to the other sharks. Little fish, they would announce, are well known to be mute, but they are silent in quite different languages and hence find it impossible to understand one another. Each little fish that, in a war, killed a couple of other little fish, enemy ones, silent in their own language, would have a little order made of seaweed pinned to it and be awarded the title of hero.

"If sharks were men, there would, of course, also be art. There would be beautiful pictures, in which the sharks' teeth would be portrayed in magnificent colors and their jaws as pure pleasure gardens, in which one could romp about splendidly. The theaters at the bottom of the sea would show heroic little fish swimming enthusiastically into the jaws of sharks, and the music would be so beautiful that to the accompaniment of its sounds, the orchestra leading the way, the little fish would stream dreamily into the sharks' jaws, lulled by the most agreeable thoughts.

"There would also be a religion, if sharks were men. It would preach that little fish only really begin to live properly in the sharks' stomachs.

"Furthermore, if sharks were men there would be an end to all little fish being equal, as is the case now. Some would be given important offices and be placed above the others. Those who were a little bigger would even be allowed to eat up the smaller ones. That would be altogether agreeable for the sharks, since they themselves would more often get bigger bites to eat. And the bigger little fish, occupying their posts, would ensure order among the little fish, become teachers, officers, engineers in box construction, etc.

"In short, if sharks were men, they would for the first time bring culture to the ocean."

17.8.09

tor·ture


• Pronunciation: ˈtȯr-chər
• Function: noun
1 a : anguish of body or mind : agony b : something that causes agony or pain
2 : the infliction of intense pain (as from burning, crushing, or wounding) to punish, coerce, or afford sadistic pleasure
3 : distortion or overrefinement of a meaning or an argument: straining


....“Do you understand the process? The Harrow is starting to write. When it’s finished with the first part of the script on the man’s back, the layer of cotton wool rolls and turns the body slowly onto its side to give the Harrow a new area. Meanwhile those parts lacerated by the inscription are lying on the cotton wool which, because it has been specially treated, immediately stops the bleeding and prepares the script for a further deepening. Here, as the body continues to rotate, prongs on the edge of the Harrow then pull the cotton wool from the wounds, throw it into the pit, and the Harrow goes to work again. In this way it keeps making the inscription deeper for twelve hours. For the first six hours the condemned man goes on living almost as before. He suffers nothing but pain. After two hours, the felt is removed, for at that point the man has no more energy for screaming. Here at the head of the Bed warm rice pudding is put in this electrically heated bowl. From this the man, if he feels like it, can help himself to what he can lap up with his tongue. No one passes up this opportunity. I don’t know of a single one, and I have had a lot of experience. He first loses his pleasure in eating around the sixth hour. I usually kneel down at this point and observe the phenomenon. The man rarely swallows the last bit...'

--------------------------In the Penal Colony -Kafka