March 12, 2015

Conversation
Jean-Paul Riopelle
d. March 12, 2002

When I Read Gargoyles by Thomas Bernhard

(....)

The prince talked as if his life depended on it. He repeated many of the same phrases over and over again, varying nothing but their word-order. To his interminable generalizations he suddenly appended the phrase: these colossal walls! The prince did not say that he was in despair; he said: these colossal walls! For the prince, all names, even place names, were names of despair. By midday he had received visits from three applicants for the steward’s position; he had managed to torture one of the applicants repeatedly with words. In conversing with the applicant he ascertained which words the man could not bear to hear and repeatedly used these words; for instance, mole, linen, miner, reformatory. The applicant reacted to these words as if he were being tortured.

No matter which words the prince addressed to his listeners, they were words of sensitivity, words of torture. I read on as the prince talked for hours to his visitors about the applicants, in the course of doing which he was incessantly vaulting from the picturesque, concrete particulars of these people—one of them lived in a landscape that was so gloomy that it actually precluded suicide, and his clothes were so neat that they must have hung on a nail and not in a closet—to certain incessantly iterated unpicturable abstractions that complementarily imparted picturesqueness to the prince. The prince was possessed by speech; he spoke, he said, out of a fear of suffocation.

The prince talked as if his life depended on it. He repeated many of the same phrases over and over again, varying nothing but their word-order. To his interminable generalizations he suddenly appended the phrase: these colossal walls! The prince did not say that he was in despair; he said: these colossal walls! For the prince, all names, even place names, were names of despair. By midday he had received visits from three applicants for the steward’s position; he had managed to torture one of the applicants repeatedly with words. In conversing with the applicant he ascertained which words the man could not bear to hear and repeatedly used these words; for instance, mole, linen, miner, reformatory. The applicant reacted to these words as if he were being tortured.

No matter which words the prince addressed to his listeners, they were words of sensitivity, words of torture. I read on as the prince talked for hours to his visitors about the applicants, in the course of doing which he was incessantly vaulting from the picturesque, concrete particulars of these people—one of them lived in a landscape that was so gloomy that it actually precluded suicide, and his clothes were so neat that they must have hung on a nail and not in a closet—to certain incessantly iterated unpicturable abstractions that complementarily imparted picturesqueness to the prince. The prince was possessed by speech; he spoke, he said, out of a fear of suffocation.

...(more)

Alberto Burri
b. March 12, 1915

(....)

And didn’t you also say, says the reader, that—for you—the art of writing was to say something without naming it. ?You wrote that in an article in that literary magazine, didn’t you? Thanks for the quotations, says the author, that’s ?very observant of you. And then the author can feel free to go skiing and get stuck in the chairlift on the last journey up in the fog. It’s then up to him whether he wants to go skiing, self-determination is supreme, says the reader, but the texts need to manage without the author, they need to stand on their own. Yes, where would we be, says the author, if the author were to start explaining his texts, let’s talk about the weather instead. The ?weather stands by you, says the reader. The author lights another cigarette and holds out the packet to the reader, no, thank you, says the reader, I no longer smoke actually, my ex-wife no longer smokes either.

Do you play an instrument at least, asks the author. I used to play the trombone, says the reader, and you? As a child I played the drum, says the author. Oh, says the reader, looking straight ahead. A good text is unpredictable, you said that too, or didn’t you, says the reader. Did you hear something, asks the author, there’s something there. There’s nothing there, says the reader, it’s the ghosts you’re hearing. Beside my washing machine at home is a ghost, says the reader. Have you a washing machine, asks the author. Yes, says the reader, taking a new little bottle from his inside pocket. Here, do have a drink, says the reader, it will help you. The author puts on his ski goggles. My ex-wife always said: if you drink, you’re also allowed to be drunk. Is that you praying, asks the reader. No, I’m just cold. Why have you stopped talking, asks the reader. Aha, I understand, says the reader, what also distinguishes a good author is knowing exactly when not to say anything. Don’t look at me like that, says the reader, you said so yourself.

...(more)

Me and Me
1994
Milton Resnick
d. March 12, 2004

In the beginning, the earth was without form. The face of the deep moved upon the face of the waters. Light divided from darkness, shall become light, is becoming light. The earth brought forth great whales, and every living creature of the earth made the earth over and over and over and over.

There went up a mist from the earth. Dust of the ground breathed into life, out of the ground, pleasant to the sight, in the midst of the garden. Knowledge of good and evil went out and parted and became the onyx river. Bone of bones, and flesh of flesh, taken out of one flesh, naked and not ashamed.

Eyes opened in the cool of the day. Hid amongst the trees, between Enmity and Grief, Impulse and Rule, the ground of lives, thorn and weed, sweat of nostrils. Bread. Return. From her you were taken and to soil you shall return.

Of the ground, a flaming sword turned every way to keep the way. In process of time, brought the fruit of the ground unto hot faces, downcast. “The portal in the field is Brother. Am I my brother’s keeper?” Voice of blood, of brother of you, from the ground. The earth opened her mouth to blood, a fugitive and vagabond in the earth.

Upon the land, a city and tents and cattle; the father of the harp and organ; an instructor in brass and iron. All the days lived were generating and becoming all days. There were giants in the heart. The earth filled with pitch. The high hills were covered in nostril life.

(....)

The face of the earth waxed sore. With their faces to the earth, the naked let Fear commune with them. Their heart failed. They were afraid, saying, “Fear. Weep. Eat. Silver. Gold. Ground. City. Speak in ears, old and little dead. Eyes cannot pass the words a little food.”

Fear, buried and dim, stretched, unstable as water, into the secret assembly, gathering blood and milk to bear a fruitful well whose branches run over the wall, the grieved, the arms, the hands, the shepherd, the deep, the breasts, the womb, the utmost bound of the everlasting hills, the crown of the head, wolf, the prey … The field made a face to speak a sore lamentation for seven days, called beyond and unto, carried into the land and the cave an unsent messenger—Fear—in place, thought, this day. Fear not speaking shall bring up the bones.

...(more)

Victor Brauner
d. March 12, 1966