Le sang païen revient!
Well Rimbaud, if you say so, then.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
A Poem For The Establishment
Half-breed, link up all you want,
Be read as often as you please,
But remember, until you have the right clout,
You'll never have praise like bread.
Be read as often as you please,
But remember, until you have the right clout,
You'll never have praise like bread.
A Poem For Redwoods (On A Theme Of Sweet Betsy From Pike)
Those brownies burnin', as sweet as caught salmon,
A tall Shanghai rooster and an old yellow dog.
Ole Frisco porch, has Rainer deflowered fog,
They reached California spite of hell and high water.
Jack Kerouac's whoopee, like Wawp Whipwhim Yosemite,
And fought off the Injuns with musket and ball.
If you'd do the dishes, a soldiers' marinade for the camping,
And showed her bare bum to the whole wagon train.
A big breast too sloppy to have unsnapped at a draw,
Looked rather suspicious, but it was all on the square.
With Chinatown alley, the Big Sur unlikely,
As she travelled along with his arm round her waist.
With famous retorts, a Mount Vernon privateer,
Saying, 'Betsy, my darlin', I'm a made millioneer.'
Blonde on blonde is like canned tuna fish in the bay,
But don't dance me so hard, do you wanna know why?
Weather report suite, has no woman no smile?
'I've six good men waitin' within a half a mile.'
A tall Shanghai rooster and an old yellow dog.
Ole Frisco porch, has Rainer deflowered fog,
They reached California spite of hell and high water.
Jack Kerouac's whoopee, like Wawp Whipwhim Yosemite,
And fought off the Injuns with musket and ball.
If you'd do the dishes, a soldiers' marinade for the camping,
And showed her bare bum to the whole wagon train.
A big breast too sloppy to have unsnapped at a draw,
Looked rather suspicious, but it was all on the square.
With Chinatown alley, the Big Sur unlikely,
As she travelled along with his arm round her waist.
With famous retorts, a Mount Vernon privateer,
Saying, 'Betsy, my darlin', I'm a made millioneer.'
Blonde on blonde is like canned tuna fish in the bay,
But don't dance me so hard, do you wanna know why?
Weather report suite, has no woman no smile?
'I've six good men waitin' within a half a mile.'
Stendhal Takes Paris
I wish my French was good enough to see if Stendhal reads as hilariously in French as he does in English. A few more examples from Charterhouse,
"The Marchese professed a vigorous hatred of enlightment. 'It is ideas,' he would say, 'that have been the ruin of Italy.' He did not know quite how to reconcile this holy horror of learning with his desire to see his son Fabrizio perfect the education so brilliantly begun with the Jesuits."
"Two or three times a year Fabrizio, dauntless and hotheaded in pursuit of pleasure, would come very near to drowning himself in the lake."
"Throughout the thirteen years from 1800 to 1813, (The Marchese del Dongo) constantly and firmly believed that Napoleon would be overthrown before six months had passed. Judge then of his rapture when, at the beginning of 1813, he learnt of the disasters of the Beresina! The taking of Paris and the fall of Napoleon almost sent him right off his head; he then allowed himself to make the most outrageous remarks to his wife and his sister. At last, after fourteen years of waiting, he had the inexpressible joy of seeing the Austrian troops re-enter Milan."
"(The Marchese) had one consolation. After the fall of Napoleon, certain powerful personages in Milan had arranged for Conte Prina, a former minister of the King of Italy, and a man of the highest merit, to be brutally assaulted in the street. Conte Pietranera risked his own life to save the minister's, who died from blows received from umbrellas, after an agony of five hours' duration."
A love letter, which reads,
"Will you for once act like an intelligent being? Pray imagine that you have never known me.
I am, with perhaps a little trace of contempt, your very humble servant.
GINA PIETRANERA
After reading this note, Limercati set off for one of his country seats; his love rose to frenzy, he became quite mad and talked of blowing out his brains, a thing unheard of in countries where people believe in hell."
Can't wait to see where this ironic touch ends up. One of the most bizarre things Hitchens ever said was his challenge to the public to find one worthy, quotable line from then candidate Obama's Philadelphia speech on race, as if the complete absence of a Kennedy phrase or two is equatable to a rhetorical deficiency. Persuasive power doesn't require quotability; that should have been obvious to someone who has made a career fighting back fascism, especially where it doesn't exist, like in the Clintons' bedroom. It's much more impressive to me that a historical, ironic power which Stendhal displays here, carried out consistently while telling the simplest of tales (so far, about a boy who is born into a historical moment and grows up into it), can even exist.
"The Marchese professed a vigorous hatred of enlightment. 'It is ideas,' he would say, 'that have been the ruin of Italy.' He did not know quite how to reconcile this holy horror of learning with his desire to see his son Fabrizio perfect the education so brilliantly begun with the Jesuits."
"Two or three times a year Fabrizio, dauntless and hotheaded in pursuit of pleasure, would come very near to drowning himself in the lake."
"Throughout the thirteen years from 1800 to 1813, (The Marchese del Dongo) constantly and firmly believed that Napoleon would be overthrown before six months had passed. Judge then of his rapture when, at the beginning of 1813, he learnt of the disasters of the Beresina! The taking of Paris and the fall of Napoleon almost sent him right off his head; he then allowed himself to make the most outrageous remarks to his wife and his sister. At last, after fourteen years of waiting, he had the inexpressible joy of seeing the Austrian troops re-enter Milan."
"(The Marchese) had one consolation. After the fall of Napoleon, certain powerful personages in Milan had arranged for Conte Prina, a former minister of the King of Italy, and a man of the highest merit, to be brutally assaulted in the street. Conte Pietranera risked his own life to save the minister's, who died from blows received from umbrellas, after an agony of five hours' duration."
A love letter, which reads,
"Will you for once act like an intelligent being? Pray imagine that you have never known me.
I am, with perhaps a little trace of contempt, your very humble servant.
GINA PIETRANERA
After reading this note, Limercati set off for one of his country seats; his love rose to frenzy, he became quite mad and talked of blowing out his brains, a thing unheard of in countries where people believe in hell."
Can't wait to see where this ironic touch ends up. One of the most bizarre things Hitchens ever said was his challenge to the public to find one worthy, quotable line from then candidate Obama's Philadelphia speech on race, as if the complete absence of a Kennedy phrase or two is equatable to a rhetorical deficiency. Persuasive power doesn't require quotability; that should have been obvious to someone who has made a career fighting back fascism, especially where it doesn't exist, like in the Clintons' bedroom. It's much more impressive to me that a historical, ironic power which Stendhal displays here, carried out consistently while telling the simplest of tales (so far, about a boy who is born into a historical moment and grows up into it), can even exist.
James Joyce The Traveler
Never thought of him this way. More like an alchemist, staving off verbal poverty, the material kind too, until the thing is done. But here's Richard Ellman describing him as one, beginning the chapter 1904-1905,
'Poets,' Henri Michaux has written, 'love trips.' Joyce was a traveler by nature as well as necessity. When he had sufficiently complicated his life in one place, he preferred, instead of unraveling it, to move on to another, so that he piled involvement upon involvement. One of the several reasons for his high spirits on leaving Dublin was that he felt he had been forced into doing what he liked.
'Poets,' Henri Michaux has written, 'love trips.' Joyce was a traveler by nature as well as necessity. When he had sufficiently complicated his life in one place, he preferred, instead of unraveling it, to move on to another, so that he piled involvement upon involvement. One of the several reasons for his high spirits on leaving Dublin was that he felt he had been forced into doing what he liked.
That Livid Dublin Evening Light On The Shallows
Samuel Beckett to Tom McGreevy, 25 January 1931,
"Today I am alone until 1 or 2 tomorrow morning, phrase-hunting in St. Augustine and ekeing out the last of my coal, assoupi (meaning 'drowsy')."
Phrase-hunting in St. Augustine? What could that possibly mean? In the same letter we find him reading Malraux, and also saying, "You know I can't write at all. The simplest sentence is a torture. I wish we could meet & talk - before I become inarticulate or eloquently suave." How is it, I wonder, that style alone has become so dissatisfying to him? At some point every artist has to let go of the fear of inadequacy to recognize we're no gods, especially aided by the kind of acclaim publishing or a gallery show would bring, which at least Beckett appears to recognize as being no boon unto itself.
"Today I am alone until 1 or 2 tomorrow morning, phrase-hunting in St. Augustine and ekeing out the last of my coal, assoupi (meaning 'drowsy')."
Phrase-hunting in St. Augustine? What could that possibly mean? In the same letter we find him reading Malraux, and also saying, "You know I can't write at all. The simplest sentence is a torture. I wish we could meet & talk - before I become inarticulate or eloquently suave." How is it, I wonder, that style alone has become so dissatisfying to him? At some point every artist has to let go of the fear of inadequacy to recognize we're no gods, especially aided by the kind of acclaim publishing or a gallery show would bring, which at least Beckett appears to recognize as being no boon unto itself.
A Thought On The Minority Taste Of Literature
I prefer it that the poetic is becoming a segment of a dying breed (supposedly). Purity turns me on more than popularity does. I don't need to feel less alone. I don't need to bridge no awful gap, unless, of course, it's more money and more status I need. I have beautiful women in mind. If an attrition rate has already settled in with literature, I say good, let the trend seekers go fuck themselves.
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