Behind the Seen

در پُشت مُشتای اینجاÉdouard Manet, Baudelaire’s Mistress— Jeanne Duval Reclining, 1862.
Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses, O you, all my pleasures! O you, all my duties! You will remember the beauty of caresses, the sweetness of the hearth and the charm of the evenings. Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses.
The evenings aglow with the heat of the coals, and the evenings on the balcony, veiled with rose mist; how soft your breast was to me! how kind your heart! We often said imperishable things on evenings aglow with the heat of the coals.
How beautiful the sun is on warm evenings! How deep space is! How powerful is the heart! Bending over you, queen of adored ones, I thought I breathed the perfume of your blood. How beautiful the sun is on warm evenings!
Night deepened like a wall, and my eyes in the darkness sensed your eyes, and I drank your breath, O sweetness! O poison! And your feet slumbered in my brotherly hands. Night deepened like a wall.
I know the art of evoking happy moments, and live again my past curled up in your lap. For what is the good of seeking your languorous beauty elsewhere than in your dear body and in your so gentle heart? I know the art of evoking happy moments.
Those vows, those perfumes, those infinite kisses, will they be born again from a gulf we may not sound as rejuvenated suns rise up to heaven after being bathed in the depth of deep seas? — O vows! O perfumes! O infinite kisses!
Baudelaire’s poem “The Balcony”, addressed to Jeanne Duval.
_

A portrait of Gluck, painted in 1775 by Joseph Siffred Duplessis (1725-1802); in the collection of the Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna
Berenice che fai! More il tuo bene,
stupida, e tu non corri… Oh dio vacilla
l’ incerto passo; un gelido mi scuote
insolito tremor tutte le vene;
e a gran pena il suo peso il piè sostiene.
Dove son! Qual confusa
folla d’ idee tutte funeste adombra
la mia ragion! Veggo Demetrio; il veggo
che in atto di ferir… Fermati; vivi;
d’ Antigono io sarò. Del core ad onta
volo a giurargli fé. Dirò che l’ amo,
dirò… Misera me! S’ oscura il giorno!
Balena il ciel! L’ hanno irritato i miei
meditati spergiuri. Oimè lasciate
ch’ io soccorra il mio ben, barbari dei.
Voi m’ impedite e intanto
forse un colpo improviso…
Ah sarete contenti; eccolo ucciso.
Aspetta anima bella; ombre compagne
a Lete andrem. Se non potei salvarti,
potrò fedel… Ma tu mi guardi! E parti!
Non partir bell’ idol mio!
Per quell’ onda all’ altra sponda
voglio anch’ io passar con te.
Voglio anch’ io…
Me infelice!
Che fingo! Che ragiono!
Dove rapita io sono
dal torrente crudel de’ miei martiri!
Misera Berenice, ah tu deliri.
Perché, se tanti siete
che delirar mi fate,
perché non m’ uccidete
affanni del mio cor.
Crescete, oh dio, crescete,
fin che mi porga aita
con togliermi di vita
l’ eccesso del dolor.

Born on the 2nd of July, 1923 - Wisława Szymborska, Polish poet and Nobel Laureate (1996)…
Pi by Wislawa SzymborskaThe admirable number pi:
three point one four one.
All the following digits are also just a start,
five nine two, because it never ends.
It can’t be grasped, six five three five, at a glance,
eight nine, by calculation,
seven nine, through imagination,
or even, three two three eight, in jest, or by comparison,
four six, to anything,
two six four three, in the world.
The longest snake on earth ends at thirty-odd feet.
Same goes for fairy tale snakes, though they make it a little longer.
The caravan of digits that is pi
does not stop at the edge of the page,
but runs off the table and into the air,
over the wall, a leaf, a bird’s nest, the clouds, straight into the sky,
through all the bloatedness and bottomlessness.
Oh how short, all but mouse-like is the comet’s tail!
How frail is a ray of starlight, bending in any old space!
Meanwhile, two three fifteen three hundred nineteen,
my phone number your shirt size
the year nineteen hundred and seventy-three sixth floor
number of inhabitants sixty-five cents
hip measurement two fingers a charade and a code,
in which we find how blithe the trostle sings!
and please remain calm,
and heaven and earth shall pass away,
but not pi, that won’t happen,
it still has an okay five,
and quite a fine eight,
and all but final seven,
prodding and prodding a plodding eternity
to last.

Born on the 2nd of July, German-Swiss author and 1946 Nobel Literature Laureate, Hermann Hesse (1877 - 1962), author of many fine novels, including 1960s cult classic, Steppenwolf…
Photo: Gret Widmann, 1927

Franz Kafka (born 3 July, 1883; died 3 June, 1924), pictured above in an 1896 photograph
—from Kafka: A Biography, by Ronald Hayman (1981) (the quotations from Kafka above are taken from his notebooks)
Der wahre Weg (Hommage-message à Pierre Boulez), from the Kafka-Fragmente (Op. 24), composed between 1985 and 1986 by György Kurtág, setting to music fragments from the notebooks of Franz Kafka (born 3 July, 1883; died 3 June, 1924); performed here by Juliane Banse, soprano, and András Keller, violin, on a 2005 recording for ECM
From Kafka’s notebooks:
‘Der wahre Weg geht über ein Seil, das nicht in der Höhe gespannt ist, sondern knapp über dem Boden. Es scheint mehr bestimmt stolpern zu machen, als begangen zu werden.’
‘The true path goes by way of a rope that is suspended not high up, but rather just above the ground. Its purpose seems to be more to make one stumble than to be walked on.’

I have always been afraid of ink
and besides I wonder if it is not some
drop from the river of the dead.
It doesn’t reflect the same thing to anyone.
We hardly know where it comes from
and we wonder where it’s going to.
Jean Cocteau
Letters to my American friends, 1958
Jean Cocteau (born 5 July 1889; died 11 October, 1963), pictured above with the principal dancers in his 1924 musical-theatre work, Le train bleu (with music by Darius Milhaud)
—from Rappel À L’Ordre (1926)

Gustav Mahler (born 7 July, 1860; died 18 May, 1911), pictured above in a photograph made when the composer was a young boy (precise date not known)
‘Daydreaming and lack of attention were not the only reasons for the low grades Gustav Mahler received in the colleges of Iglau and Prague. When this “quiet” child became an adolescent, he began to feel within himself the demons of fanaticism and impatience which later on caused him to be called a “tyrant” and a “monster.” The following anecdote reveals his childish impatience.
One day Gustav was waiting at the door of the Iglau Gymnasium for the distribution of the monthly report cards. The wait seemed endless, for he was eaten up with curiosity to know what his card would say: he felt an urge as if to jump out of his skin. Having withstood this impatience for a long while, he suddenly decided that the time had come for self-control, and addressed his own spirit in the following terms: “Control yourself and drive out this impatient demon! Someday, when this moment will be long past, when you will be an adult, you will often feel as if impatience for some ardently desired event will kill you; then remember this day, and say to yourself: as that moment ended, so the most disagreeable will pass.”
[…]
According to Alma Mahler, Mahler dreamed his way through the places and lands of his childhood, and even in the heart of his family he dreamed away his youthful years. If any one event woke him from this endless dream and plunged him into brutal reality, it was certainly the death of his beloved brother [Ernst, born in 1861; died of pericarditis 13 April, 1875]. That day—which was perhaps the last of childhood—was essential for his discovery of the world and of himself. A few months later he left Iglau and took the first step up the difficult ladder that was to lead him to fame.’
—from Mahler, by Henry-Louis de la Grange (1973)
Symphony No. 5 (1901-02)
Gustav Mahler
- IV. Adagietto. Sehr langsam
Leonard Bernstein; Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra
Recorded: 9/8/1987: Frankfurt am Main, Alte Oper
Um Mitternacht, one of the Rückert Lieder that Gustav Mahler (born 7 July, 1860; died 18 May, 1911) composed during the summers of 1901 and 1902, setting five poems by Friedrich Rückert (1788-1866); performed here by mezzo-soprano Christianne Stotijn, with the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra under the baton of Yasuo Shinozaki, in a live recording made in Glasgow in 2006
Um Mitternacht…
Um Mitternacht
Hab’ ich gewacht
Und aufgeblickt zum Himmel;
Kein Stern vom Sterngewimmel
Hat mir gelacht
Um Mitternacht.
Um Mitternacht
Hab’ ich gedacht
Hinaus in dunkle Schranken.
Es hat kein Lichtgedanken
Mir Trost gebracht
Um Mitternacht.
Um Mitternacht
Nahm ich in acht
Die Schläge meines Herzens;
Ein einz’ger Puls des Schmerzes
War angefacht
Um Mitternacht.
Um Mitternacht
Kämpft’ ich die Schlacht,
O Menschheit, deiner Leiden;
Nicht konnt’ ich sie entscheiden
Mit meiner Macht
Um Mitternacht.
Um Mitternacht
Hab’ ich die Macht
In deine Hand gegeben!
Herr! über Tod und Leben
Du hältst die Wacht
Um Mitternacht!
At midnight
I was awake
and looked up to the heavens;
Not one of the whole host of stars
smiled down at me
at midnight.
At midnight
my thoughts went out
to the bounds of darkness.
No thought of light
brought me comfort
at midnight
At midnight
I heeded the beating of my heart;
but one pulse of pain
throbbed, burning,
at midnight.
At midnight
I fought the battle
of your suffering, mankind!
I could not decide it
with all my strength
at midnight.
At midnight
I resigned all power
into Thy hand.
Lord! Over death and life
Though keepest watch,
at midnight.
(translated by S. S. Prawer)

Verner von Heidenstam (July 6, 1859 - 1940) was a Swedish poet and novelist - Nobel Prize Laureate in Literature in 1916.
The Shifting Self - from Thoughts in Loneliness
Each night my old self in the grave I lay
And get me another on waking.
With a hundred thoughts I begin the day,
Not one to my slumber-time taking.
‘Twixt sorrow and joy I roam without pause ;
I seem like a riddle, none dafter.
But lucky is he who for any cause,
Can burst into tears or laughter.
(Photo of the poet at around age 20, c. 1879)

Born on the 6th of July: Frida Kahlo (1907 - 1954), vibrant Mexican painter and activist
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La Llorona :: Chavela Vargas
Todos me dicen el negro, Llorona
Negro pero cariñoso.
Todos me dicen el negro, Llorona
Negro pero cariñoso.
Yo soy como el chile verde, Llorona
Picante pero sabroso.
Yo soy como el chile verde, Llorona
Picante pero sabroso.
Ay de mí, Llorona Llorona,
Llorona, llévame al río
Tápame con tu rebozo, Llorona
Porque me muero de frió
________________
Love is Lemony
Now that you draw the pink veil
Off my face
Love is this very lemon
That goes lemon lemon to the orange
Lashes and neck, long
Lashes and neck, bent
Lashes back, neck askew
My head cockeyed out the nook
Over the shoulder, behind sight
Shoulders like square houses
Childhood doodle houses
We stand facing each other
Two mad souls
Neck to neck
Shoulder to shoulder
Lashes and neck
And then
A bit bent
Bend a bit to roll over
Let me blaze on your shoulder and eyes
Your eyes that kiss kiss wet my lips
Your eye that kisses wets my lips
Your eye that plunges
Into the furrow and once again we see
Nothing and coil like vine
And whirl in noise and rapture
Come! Come!
If you draw the soft pink
Aside
Love is this very lemon
That somewhat sour
Leaps
Lemon lemon
To the orange!
Read the original Persian poem here.


Jean de La Fontaine (born 8 July, 1621; died 13 April, 1695), pictured above in the marble sculpture by Pierre Julien (1731-1804), first exhibited in 1785; in the collection of the Louvre
L’homme et son image
Pour M. le Duc de La Rochefoucauld
Un homme qui s’aimait sans avoir de rivaux
Passait dans son esprit pour le plus beau du monde:
Il accusait toujours les miroirs d’être faux,
Vivant plus que content dans une erreur profonde.
Afin de le guérir, le sort officieux
Présentait partout à ses yeux
Les conseillers muets dont se servent nos dames:
Miroirs dans les logis, miroirs chez les marchands,
Miroirs aux poches des galands,
Miroirs aux ceintures des femmes.
Que fait notre Narcisse? Il se va confiner
Aux lieux les plus cachés qu’il peut s’imaginer,
N’osant plus des miroirs éprouver l’aventure.
Mais un canal, formé par une source pure,
Se trouve en ces lieux écartés:
Il s’y voit, il se fâche, et ses yeux irrités
Pensent apercevoir une chimère vaine.
Il fait tout ce qu’il peut pour éviter cette eau;
Mais quoi? Le canal est si beau
Qu’il ne le quitte qu’avec peine.
On voit bien où je veux venir.
Je parle à tous; et cette erreur extrême
Est un mal que chacun se plaît d’entretenir.
Notre âme, c’est cet homme amoureux de lui-même;
Tant de miroirs, ce sont les sottises d’autrui,
Miroirs, de nos défauts les peintres légitimes;
Et quant au canal, c’est celui
Que chacun sait, le livre des Maximes.
The Man and His Image
To M. The Duke De La Rochefoucauld
A man, who had no rivals in the love
Which to himself he bore,
Esteem’d his own dear beauty far above
What earth had seen before.
More than contented in his error,
He lived the foe of every mirror.
Officious fate, resolved our lover
From such an illness should recover,
Presented always to his eyes
The mute advisers which the ladies prize;—
Mirrors in parlours, inns, and shops,—
Mirrors the pocket furniture of fops,—
Mirrors on every lady’s zone,
From which his face reflected shone.
What could our dear Narcissus do?
From haunts of men he now withdrew,
On purpose that his precious shape
From every mirror might escape.
But in his forest glen alone,
Apart from human trace,
A watercourse,
Of purest source,
While with unconscious gaze
He pierced its waveless face,
Reflected back his own.
Incensed with mingled rage and fright,
He seeks to shun the odious sight;
But yet that mirror sheet, so clear and still,
He cannot leave, do what he will.
Ere this, my story’s drift you plainly see.
From such mistake there is no mortal free.
That obstinate self-lover
The human soul doth cover;
The mirrors follies are of others,
In which, as all are genuine brothers,
Each soul may see to life depicted
Itself with just such faults afflicted;
And by that charming placid brook,
Needless to say, I mean your Maxim Book.
(translated from the French by Elizur Wright [1804-1885])

Marcel Proust (born 10 July, 1871; died 18 November, 1922), pictured above in his military uniform, in a photograph made circa 1896
‘Involuntary memory is explosive, “an immediate, total and delicious deflagration.” It restores, not merely the past object, but the Lazarus that it charmed or tortured, not merely Lazarus and the object, but more because less, more because it abstracts the useful, the opportune, the accidental, because in its flame it has consumed Habit and all its works, and in its brightness revealed what the mock reality of experience never can and never will reveal—the real. But involuntary memory is an unruly magician and will not be importuned. It chooses its own time and place for the performance of its miracle. I do not know how often this miracle recurs in Proust. I think twelve or thirteen times. But the first—the famous episode of the madeleine steeped in tea—would justify the assertion that his entire book is a monument to involuntary memory and the epic of its action. The whole of Proust’s world comes out of a teacup, and not merely Combray and his childhood.’
—from Proust, by Samuel Beckett (1931)

The Légende in G minor (Op. 17), composed c. 1860 by Henryk Wieniawski (born 10 July, 1835; died 31 March, 1880); performed here by Ida Haendel with the Capella Cracoviensis, conducted by Stanisław Gałoński, in a May 2006 concert at Chelm, the small city in Poland where Haendel was born (roughly eighty years ago), and where she began playing the violin at the age of three

Birthday of Luis de Góngora, Spanish poet and card-shark (July 11, 1561 – 1627)…
Not All Sweet Nightingales
THEY are not all sweet nightingales
That fill with songs the flowery vales;
But they are little silver bells,
Touched by the winds in the smiling dells;
Magic bells of gold in the grove,
Forming a chorus for her I love.
Think not the voices in the air
Are from the wingéd Sirens fair,
Playing among the dewy trees
Chanting their morning mysteries;
Oh! if you listen, delighted there,
To their music scattered o’er the dales,
They are not all sweet nightingales
That fill with songs the flowery vales;
But they are little silver bells,
Touched by the winds in the smiling dells;
Magic bells of gold in the grove,
Forming a chorus for her I love.
Oh! ‘twas a lovely song — of art
To charm — of nature to touch the heart;
Sure ‘twas some shepherd’s pipe, which played
By passion fills the forest shade;
No! ‘tis music’s diviner part
Which o’er the yielding spirit prevails.
They are not all sweet nightingales
That fill with songs the flowery vales;
But they are little silver bells,
Touched by the winds in the smiling dells;
Magic bells of gold in the grove,
Forming a chorus for her I love.
In the eye of love, which all things sees,
The fragrance-breathing jasmine trees—
And the golden flowers — and the sloping hill—
And the ever melancholy rill—
Are full of holiest sympathies
And tell of love a thousand tales.
They are not all sweet nightingales,
That fill with songs the cheerful vales;
But they are little silver bells,
Touched by the wind in the smiling dells,
Bells of gold in the secret grove,
Making music for her I love.
Till I too shared thy heavenly rest.
—Translated by John Bowring

Pablo Neruda (born 12 July, 1904; died 23 September, 1973) pictured above with Matilde Urrutia (1912-1985), on Isla Negra, Chile, where Neruda and and Urrutia lived, for the most part, from 1955 to 1959, when they had a house built in Valparaíso
From the Cien sonetos de amor (100 Love Sonnets), dedicated to Matilde Urrutia:
LXXXV
Del mar hacia las calles corre la vaga nieblacomo el vapor de un buey enterrado en el frío,
y largas lenguas de agua se acumulan cubriendo
el mes que a nuestras vidas prometiò ser celeste.
Adelantado otoño, panal silbante de hojas,
Cuando sobre los pueblos palpita tu estandarte
Cantan mujeres locas despidiendo a los ríos,
los caballos relinchan hacia la Patagonia.
Hay una enredadera vespertina en tu rostro
que crece silenciosa por el amor llevada
hasta las herraduras crepitantes del cielo.
Me inclino sobre el fuego de tu cuerpo nocturno
y no sòlo tus senos amo sino el otoño
que esparce por la niebla su sangre ultramarina.
The vague fog flows from the sea toward the streets
like the steam-breath of cattle buried in the cold,
and long tongues of water gather, covering the month
that our lives had been promised would be heavenly.
Autumn on the march, whistling honeycomb of leaves,
when your standards fly over our towns
crazy women sing good-bye to the rivers,
horses whinny toward Patagonia.
On your face is an evening vine,
climbing silently, that love lifts
up toward the crackling horseshoes of the sky.
I bend toward the fire of your nocturnal body, and I love
not only your breasts but autumn, too, as it spreads
its ultramarine blood through the fog.
(translated by Stephen Tapscott)

[…]
—from What Is to Be Done? (published originally in 1863; translated from the Russian by Benjamin R. Tucker)
The third movement, Elegia; Adagio, from the Piano Trio No. 1 in d minor (Op. 32), completed in 1894 by Anton Arensky (born 12 July, 1861; died 25 February, 1906), in memory of Karl Davidoff (1838-1889), a ‘cellist and director of the St. Petersburg Conservatory while Arensky studied there; performed here by the Beaux Arts Trio (Menahem Pressler, piano; Ida Kavafian, violin; and Peter Wiley, ‘cello), in a 1994 recording for Philips


By a strange coincidence two good friends share July 12 as their birthday:
Max Jacob (1876 - 1944) & Amedeo Modigliani (1884 - 1920)…
Max Jacob was a French poet, painter, writer, and critic - and an important link between the symbolists and the surrealists, as can be seen in his prose poems Le cornet à dés (Dice Box, 1917, illustrations by Jean Hugo) and in his paintings, exhibitions of which were held in New York City in 1930 and 1938…
Achrome, a 1960 work by Piero Manzoni (born 13 July, 1933; died 6 February, 1963) (courtesy of Studio La Città Gallery, Verona)
__________
Isaac Babel (born 13 July, 1894; died 27 January, 1940), pictured above in a photograph dating from the 1930s, by Georgii Petrusov
‘The old man drank vodkas out of an enameled teapot and ate his meatball, which smelled of happy childhood. Then he picked up his whip and walked out the gates. Basya came out after him. She had put on a pair of men’s boots, an orange dress, and a hat covered with birds, and sat down next to him on the bench. The evening slouched past the bench; the shining eye of the sunset fell into the sea beyond Peresip, and the sky was red, like a red-letter day on a calendar. All trading had ended on Dalnitskaya Street, and the gangsters drove by on the shadowy street to Joska Samuelson’s brothel. They rode in lacquered carriages and were dressed up in colorful jackets, like hummingbirds. They were goggle-eyed, one leg resting on the running-board, their steel hands holding bouquets of flowers wrapped in cigarette paper. The lacquered cabs moved at a walking pace, and in each carriage sat one man with a bouquet; the drivers, sticking out on their high seats, were covered in bows like best men at weddings. Old Jewish women in bonnets lazily watched the flow of this everyday procession—they were indifferent to everything, these old Jewish women, it was only the sons of shopkeepers and dockworkers who envied the kings of the Moldavanka.’
—from “The Father,” in The Odessa Stories (first published as a collection in 1931; translated from the Russian by Peter Constantine)

American Hero: Woody Guthrie (July 14, 1912 - 1967) - born on Bastille Day…
When the sun came shining, and I was strolling,
And the wheat fields waving and the dust clouds rolling,
As the fog was lifting a voice was chanting:
This land was made for you and me.
Photo: Woody in New York City, 1943 - Eric Schaal, LIFE
Woody Guthrie - Jesus Christ

The great Swedish film director, Ingmar Bergman - was born July 14, 1918 (d. 2007)…


The Kiss, Gustav Klimt (1908).

Walter Benjamin (born 15 July, 1892; died 27 September, 1940) pictured above:Uncle Walt/Reb Benjamin (Photo by Gisele Freund)
In One Way Street (Einbahnstraße), Benjamin’s 1928 collection of short reflections, dreams, thoughts, and aphorisms, he famously included some advice for writers:
The Writer’s Technique in Thirteen Theses
I. Anyone intending to embark on a major work should be lenient with himself and, having completed a stint, deny himself nothing that will not prejudice the next.
II. Talk about what you have written, by all means, but do not read from it while the work is in progress. Every gratification procured in this way will slacken your tempo. If this regime is followed, the growing desire to communicate will become in the end a motor for completion.
III. In your working conditions avoid everyday mediocrity. Semi-relaxation, to a background of insipid sounds, is degrading. On the other hand, accompaniment by an étude or a cacophony of voices can become as significant for work as the perceptible silence of the night. If the latter sharpens the inner ear, the former acts as a touchstone for a diction ample enough to bury even the most wayward sounds.
IV. Avoid haphazard writing materials. A pedantic adherence to certain papers, pens, inks is beneficial. No luxury, but an abundance of these utensils is indispensable.
V. Let no thought pass incognito, and keep your notebook as strictly as the authorities keep their register of aliens.
VI. Keep your pen aloof from inspiration, which it will then attract with magnetic power. The more circumspectly you delay writing down an idea, the more maturely developed it will be on surrendering itself. Speech conquers thought, but writing commands it.
VII. Never stop writing because you have run out of ideas. Literary honour requires that one break off only at an appointed moment (a mealtime, a meeting) or at the end of the work.
VIII. Fill the lacunae of inspiration by tidily copying out what is already written. Intuition will awaken in the process.
IX. Nulla dies sine linea – but there may well be weeks.
X. Consider no work perfect over which you have not once sat from evening to broad daylight.
XI. Do not write the conclusion of a work in your familiar study. You would not find the necessary courage there.
XII. Stages of composition: idea – style – writing. The value of the fair copy is that in producing it you confine attention to calligraphy. The idea kills inspiration, style fetters the idea, writing pays off style.
XIII. The work is the death mask of its conception.
—from One Way Street (1928; translated from the German by Edmund Jephcott and included in Reflections: Essays, Aphorisms, Autobiographical Writings, by Walter Benjamin, edited by Peter Demetz [1975])

Pictured above, a 1904 postcard depicting the study of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832) in Weimar, a locale that features (albeit negatively) in the piece below from One Way Street (Einbahnstraße), a collection of short writings composed from 1924 to 1928 by Walter Benjamin (born 15 July, 1892; died 27 September, 1940)
As Peter Demetz, a Benjamin scholar, has said about One Way Street, ‘the title suggests, in its urban metaphor, the fortunate turn of a street that opens into a striking view of an entire new panorama, and indicates to readers that they should confront each of the little pieces as an abruptly illuminating moment of modern experience—intimate, literary, and political.’
‘No. 113
The hours that hold the figure and the form
Have run their course with the house of dream.
—from One Way Street (1928; translated from the German by Edmund Jephcott and included in Reflections: Essays, Aphorisms, Autobiographical Writings, by Walter Benjamin, edited by Peter Demetz [1975])
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Jacques Derrida (July 15, 1930 - 2004) & Walter Benjamin (July 15, 1892 - 1940, suicide)…
Above: Frère Jacques/Reb Derrida
“I have a very complicated rapport with my image. There is a mixture of, how should I say this, a narcissistic horror – I don’t like my image.”
— | Jacques Derrida |
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1 comment:
BAUDLAIRIAN MANET,S BAD MANNERISM:
Share the time
Share the moment
Shear the time of
moment
In between
on the thorn
of between
shore up
deep
in
bet
we
en
to share the time
share
the moment
--F.S.
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