Poets, man! They’re the same all over. Mendicants, martyrs, lapsed monks convinced the world owes them an explanation or an apology or a meal, wine included. But fuck the dumb shit. I tell you this, if you’re planning a revolution or founding a new religion go to the poets. Don’t waste your time with fucking scriveners. Go to the source, the bards. At least you can count on them to be true to their essential nature. And what is this nature? Ruthlessness, I say! Enlist the poets and expect blood. There will be a lot of it. Enlist the poets and stay away from the novelists because novelists are feckless. They have no feck at all. They are yes-men hungry for approval and patronage, always looking out for their own best interests. As for playwrights, all they do is talk, talk, talk about the revolution and social justice, women’s empowerment, humanism, anarchism, but it never goes anywhere because that’s all it is, big talk, back talk, chitchat, gossip. They’re good at it because this is how they gather material. When it comes to putting words into action? They’ll be the first to disappear. You will also come across scriptwriters and screenplay doctors. Be warned. They live in their own reality and it rarely coincides with anyone else’s. I advise you to tread carefully with those bastards. Walk among them as if you’re in a den of goddamn vipers. Count on nothing and you’ll be okay. The only ones you can trust are the short-story writers because they’re like poets in at least one respect. They shoot their shot in one go and this leads to an understanding of luck and discipline. They learn early that discipline lies in waiting and allowing the circumstances for luck to arise. The point I am trying to make is that poets are born with certain unenviable traits. For example, paranoia. For example, they believe in persecution by persons of lesser sensibility. For example, they are born with a capacity for cruelty, followed by an infinite capacity for remorse.
As often happens, even the doubts of the Master become dogma in the followers.
And your doubt can become a good quality if you train it. It must become knowing, it must become criticism. Ask it, whenever it wants to spoil something for you, why something is ugly, demand proofs from it, test it, and you will find it perhaps bewildered and embarrassed, perhaps also protesting. But don’t give in, insist on arguments, and act in this way, attentive and persistent, every single time, and the day will come when, instead of being a destroyer, it will become one of your best workers — perhaps the most intelligent of all the ones that are building your life.
 ^ The original in Italian:
Come spesso accade, perfino i dubbi del Maestro diventano nei discepoli dogma.
 ^ The original in German:
Und Ihr Zweifel kann eine gute Eigenschaft werden, wenn Sie ihn erziehen. Er muß wissend werden, er muß Kritik werden. Fragen Sie ihn, sooft er Ihnen etwas verderben will, weshalb etwas häßlich ist, verlangen Sie Beweise von ihm, prüfen Sie ihn, und Sie werden ihn vielleicht ratlos und verlegen, vielleicht auch aufbegehrend finden. Aber geben Sie nicht nach, fondern Sie Argumente und handeln Sie so, aufmerksam und konsequent, jedes einzelne Mal, und der Tag wird kommen, da er aus einem Zerstörer einer Ihrer besten Arbeiter werden wird, — vielleicht der klügste von allen, die an Ihrem Leben bauen.
When a book features “connections and interrelatedness” prominently, it seems only natural that reading it would set connections in motion — eager feelers dancing through the readingscape (and beyond), sounding it out, causing texts to rub against each other, sparking conversations. Such is the case with Inger Christensen’s collection of essays The Condition of Secrecy , translated by Susanna Nied and published by New Directions.
Here’s a small thread of quotes engaged in an improvisation — in bold: resonant nodes (emphasis mine).
Before we sit down with our paper in order to (maybe, maybe not) write a poem, as well as during the many hours we sit there, that’s the way it is: as if we’ve become lost. The world, which a moment ago, when we were drinking our morning coffee, was perfectly manageable and normal, has once more suddenly become far too big, and even if our consciousness wanders in all directions, bringing small bits of language along, it can’t locate exactly the stone, the plant, the situation, perhaps the incomprehensibility, from which it can find its way back to the world with the aid of a word.
Whether meandering or straight, an essay tries to follow with the closeness of a shadow the mind’s lilts and turns—while recognizing that thought and its expression are inalienably different. There will always be a gap between consciousness and words. In any case, an essay is a composition, not merely a transcription of whatever passes in the mind.
Joseph Killorin, the man handpicked by modernist writer Conrad Aiken to collect and edit his letters, explained in the introduction to Aiken’s Selected Letters that “to write a letter was a way to ‘fix’ the hourly news of consciousness.”
In other words, a single letter has a momentary function that gets lost when read as a back-and-forth exchange. Time passes in the gaps between letters. Life happens between the licking of stamps. There is something a little voyeuristic, a little seedy, a little unfair, perhaps, in looking too closely at the nakedness of a moment without acknowledging the clothed gaps between those bare moments.
 ^ The first pathway starts from the title itself & points to “the condition of secrecy Novalis speaks of when he says, ‘Das Äusere ist ein in einen Geheimniszustand aufgehobenes Innere.‘ (The outer world is the inner world, raised to a condition of secrecy.)” (Inger Christensen, “The Condition of Secrecy,” tr. by Susanna Nied).
 ^ I stumbled on this essay as I was doing some research on Lu Ji’s Wén Fù (文賦: Fu on Literature) after reading about it in one of Inger Christensen’s essays. This pathway leads straight into a rabbit hole — I might do a post on this.
- Authors whose works I aim to explore:
- Authors whose works I aim to further explore:
- Mircea Cărtărescu
- Inger Christensen
- William H Gass
- Alexander Kluge
- António Lobo Antunes
- Arno Schmidt
- Miklós Szentkuthy
- Olga Tokarczuk
- Antoine Volodine
- Virginia Woolf
and my interest further deepened when I read this piece by Davis Smith-Brecheisen.
I tried to invent an etymology for the word “parka” but couldn’t think fast enough. Todd was on another subject—the freight train, laws of motion, effects of force, sneaking in a question about the number of boxcars that trailed the locomotive.
Я попытался придумать этимологию слову «парка», но не успел сообразить. Тодд уже перескочил на другую тему – грузовой поезд, законы движения, физические силы, захватывая вопрос, сколько вагонов тащил локомотив.
A few weeks ago, Twitter serendipity led me to discover Pollen — a Russian project gravitating towards American literature. Fumbling about on their website, I noticed that one of the issues of their fanzine was devoted to Don DeLillo. Curiosity went “mmm.”
<click> & here it was, first in the table of contents: a Russian translation of the short story “Midnight in Dostoevsky.” Curiosity went “MMM,” & I thought, “Well, well, well, why not reread it in the original along with its translation?”
A weird—irresistibly irrational / irrationally irresistible—compulsion.
This is how I embarked upon a rereading which is likely to take time. So far it has proved to be a wild, delightful playground for a (daredevil) beginning learner of Russian: swarming with lexical discoveries & grammatical puzzles.
Koteks looked at both sides, then rolled his chair closer. ‘You know the Nefastis Machine?’ Oedipa only widened her eyes. ‘Well, this was invented by John Nefastis, who’s up at Berkeley now. John’s somebody who still invents things here. I have a copy of the patent.’ From a drawer he produced a Xeroxed wad of papers, showing a box with a sketch of a bearded Victorian on its outside, and coming out of the top two pistons attached to a crankshaft and flywheel.
‘Who’s that with the beard?’ asked Oedipa. James Clerk Maxwell, explained Koteks, a famous Scotch scientist who had once postulated a tiny intelligence, known as Maxwell’s Demon. The Demon could sit in a box among air molecules that were moving at all different random speeds, and sort out the fast molecules from the slow ones. Fast molecules have more energy than slow ones. Concentrate enough of them in one place and you have a region of high temperature. You can then use the difference in temperature between this hot region of the box and any cooler region, to drive a heat engine. Since the Demon only sat and sorted, you wouldn’t have put any real work into the system. So you would be violating the Second Law of Thermodynamics, getting something for nothing, causing perpetual motion.
‘Sorting isn’t work?’ Oedipa said. ‘Tell them down at the post office, you’ll find yourself in a mailbag headed for Fairbanks, Alaska, without even a FRAGILE sticker going for you.’
‘It’s mental work,’ Koteks said, ‘but not work in the thermodynamic sense.’ He went on to tell how the Nefastis Machine contained an honest-to-God Maxwell’s Demon. All you had to do was stare at the photo of Clerk Maxwell, and concentrate on which cylinder, right or left, you wanted the Demon to raise the temperature in. The air would expand and push a piston. The familiar Society for the Propagation of Christian Knowledge photo, showing Maxwell in right profile, seemed to work best.
— Thomas Pynchon, The Crying of Lot 49
In Mexico City they somehow wandered into an exhibition of paintings by the beautiful Spanish exile Remedios Varo: in the central paintings of a triptych, titled ‘Bordando el Manto Terrestre’, were a number of frail girls with heart-shaped faces, huge eyes, spun-gold hair, prisoners in the top room of a circular tower, embroidering a kind of tapestry which spilled out the slit windows and into a void, seeking hopelessly to fill the void: for all the other buildings and creatures, all the waves, ships and forests of the earth were contained in this tapestry, and the tapestry was the world. Oedipa, perverse, had stood in front of the painting and cried. No one had noticed; she wore dark green bubble shades. For a moment she’d wondered if the seal around her sockets were tight enough to allow the tears simply to go on and fill up the entire lens space and never dry. She could carry the sadness of the moment with her that way forever, see the world refracted through those tears, those specific tears, as if indices as yet unfound varied in important ways from cry to cry. She had looked down at her feet and known, then, because of a painting, that what she stood on had only been woven together a couple thousand miles away in her own tower, was only by accident known as Mexico, and so Pierce had taken her away from nothing, there’d been no escape.
— Thomas Pynchon, The Crying of Lot 49