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Mathilde was there in the dawn, this perfect girl as if made to his specifications. [A different life, had Lotto listened to the terror: no glory, no plays; peace, ease, and money. No glamour; children. Which life was better? Not for us to say.]
A hunter of shadows, himself a shade.
Sawcy, and ouer-bold, how did you dare
To Trade, and Trafficke with Macbeth,
In Riddles, and Affaires of death;
And I the Mistris of your Charmes,
The close contriuer of all harmes,
Was neuer call'd to beare my part,
Or shew the glory of our Art?
He was a man in the prime of his life, his fifties ... broad forehead, aquiline nose, penetrating gaze, the very soul of rectitude and goodness.
Beckett . . . Joyce . . . Proust . . . Shakespeare
Charles Augustus Milverton was a man of fifty, with a large, intellectual head, a round, plump, hairless face, a perpetual frozen smile, and two keen gray eyes, which gleamed brightly from behind broad, gold-rimmed glasses.
Proust has been dead since 1922, yet the annual appearance of his posthumous works has left him, to the reader, alive. Now there is nothing left to publish. Five years after his interment, Proust seems dead for the first time.
There were three of us; Witkiewicz, Bruno Schulz, and myself
the three muskateers of the Polish avant-garde between the wars. Only Witkiewicz remains to be discovered.
Man with the Muckrake
Think of brilliant trickster Vik Muniz as the offspring of Man Ray and Jacques Henri Lartigue, combining the former's relentless experimentation, the latter's effortless wit, and their mutual inventiveness in work that defies category.
It was Sophie ( Sophie Arp Tauber, woman artist and later Arp's wife) who, by the example of her work and her life, both of them bathed in clarity, showed me the right way. In her world, the high and the low, the light and the dark, the eternal and the ephemeral, are balanced in prefect equilibrium.
I suggest in my own discussion of this episode, Mann invites us to set the attempt to philosophize about his predicament in the context of Aschenbach's life. The literary presentation thus adds to the naked philosophical skeleton.
Among the young ravens driven to roost awhile on Graydon's ark was James Andrew Manallace - a darkish, slow northerner of a type that does not ignite, but must be detonated. ("Dayspring Mishandled")
Maimonides is the most influential Jewish thinker of the Middle Ages, and quite possibly of all time.
Feare, the Bedle of the Law.
Mortui vivis docent - the dead teach the living.
Even the devil was once an angel"
- Sebastian Morgenstern
I, sole heir to the Munodi line and memory, am childless. A friend who knows such things has told me that this explains my compulsion to capture what I can with black ink on white paper." ("The Volatilized Ceiling of Baron Munodi")
God!...If only I had not read so much Egyptology before coming to this land which is the fountain of all darkness and terror!
The humblest individual under heaven, Than might suffice a moderate century through. I knew that nought was lasting, but now even Change grows too changeable without being new.
Monseigneur Bienvenu was simply a man who took note of the exterior of mysterious questions without scrutinizing them, and without troubling his own mind with them, and who cherished in his own soul a grave respect for darkness.
Morwen had perceived Galadir's lips over every body part and it was like tearing the flesh slowly and savor every muscular fiber. Savoring the man's skin was like drinking a river of blood. But then the blood and flesh were missing. There was only him.
Berthe Morisot was a painter full of eighteenth-century delicacy and grace; in a word, the last elegant and 'feminine' artists since Fragonard.
Wilder, Amos. Theopoetic. Philadelphia: Fortress, 1976.
The Alexandrian man, who is basically a librarian and copy editor and goes miserably blind from the dust of books and printing errors.
Who that has reason, and his smell,
Would not among roses and jasmin dwell?
This is Rilke. I wish I had written it for you.
declared Mr Marrable magniloquently;
The family crest of none other than Professor James Moriarty." The very name filled me with fear, and my trousers with something that was certainly not fear.
That Hieronymus Bosch. What a weirdo.
Mendelssohn I consider the first musician of the day; I doff my hat to him as my superior. He plays with everything, especially with the grouping of the instruments in the orchestra, but with such ease, delicacy and art, with such mastery throughout.
SIGURD. Man's will can do this and that; but fate rules in the deeds that shape our lives - so has it gone with us twain.
Baldric; but he made a remark that seems worthy of record.
Morpheus leans close. His hair brushes my exposed shoulder, tickling and soft. "Shy little blossom," he whispers, his sweet breath cloaking me. "We're simply going to meld your pain away."
Meld ... that doesn't sound like something my dad would approve of.
Robert Frost: plain, strong, simple, and mean.
Mr Michener, as timeless as a stack of National Geographics, is the ultimate Summer Writer. Just as one goes back to the cottage in Maine, so one goes back to one's Michener.
Only the light from your heart can see the beauty of magnificent morn.
The pilot of the Galilean lake; Two massy keys he bore, of metals twain (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain).
Nietzsche is no more or less than the Schliemann of asceticisms. In the midst of the excavation sites, surrounded by the psychopathic rubble of millennia and the ruins of morbid palaces, he was completely right to assume the triumphant expression of a discoverer.
Bergman was the first to bring metaphysics - religion, death, existentialism - to the screen ... But the best of Bergman is the way he speaks of women, of the relationship between men and women. He's like a miner digging in search of purity.
--Writing Mystery and Macabre--
(an excellent man, with whom I am sorry now that I did not converse more often, for, even if he cared nothing for the arts, he knew a great many etymologies)
Murana is the name of the mask I have designed for Venini: a volume to wear for filtering the reality through the glass of its surfaces, a face without sexual or racial connotations able to represent every kind of humanity, a soul for an object that could be casually perceived as a vase ...
Blest is he whose heart is the home of the great dead and their great thoughts.
My father who art in hell, Lestat be your name.
Melville's Moby-Dick -
These Norsemen are excellent persons in the main, with good sense, steadiness, wise speech, and prompt action. But they have a singular turn for homicide; their chief end of man is to murder or to be murdered;
Turin is a city which entices a writer towards vigor, linearity, style. It encourages logic, and through logic it opens the way towards madness.
You must talk to me, Caravaggio. Or am I just a book? Something to be read, some creature to be tempted out of a loch and shot full of morphine, full of corridors, lies, loose vegetation, pockets of stones.
Whene'er with haggard eyes I view This dungeon that I'm rotting in, I think of those companions true Who studied with me at the U- Niversity of Gottingen.
Whoever could properly characterize Goethe's Meister would have actually expressed what is the timely trend in literature. He would be able, as far as literary criticism is concerned, to rest.
That man scorches with his brightness, who overpowers inferior capacities, yet he shall be revered when dead.
In every author let us distinguish the man from his works.
Picasso." He whispers like a priest. "Picasso. Who saw the truth. Who painted the truth, molded it, ripped from the earth with two angry hands.
The First - Recalled to Life I. The Period II. The Mail III. The Night Shadows IV. The Preparation V. The Wine-shop
Dante, or the hyena that writes poetry in tombs.
Every morning upon awakening, I experience a supreme pleasure: that of being Salvador Dali, and I ask myself, wonderstruck, what prodigious thing will he do today, this Salvador Dali.
The greatest and most blessed thing in the Germanic life is the mythical, sensitive, yet strong, awakening. The fact is that we have again begun to dream our own primal dreams.
Rilke to wake up. I don't read any books in which women
The castle? The monster? The man of learning? I only just thought of it. Surely you know that just as the momentous events of the past cast their shadows down the ages, so now, when the sun is drawing toward the dark,our own shadows race into the past to trouble mankind's dreams.
A poet is a pillar of light in the darkness. Sir Kristian Goldmund Aumann
A Bereavement? Franzen's posthumous novel?
Omnia exeunt in mysterium. (All things end in mystery).
The writer is the Faust of modern society, the only surviving individualist in a mass age. To his orthodox contemporaries he seems a semi-madman.
MACDUFF That way the noise is. Tyrant, show thy face! If thou beest slain, and with no stroke of mine, My wife and children's ghosts will haunt me still.
So as through a glass, and darkly - The age long strife I see - Where I fought in many guises, - Many names, but always me.
Heinrich had a reputation locally for cunning, but Ankh-Morpork had overtaken cunning a thousand years ago, had sped past devious, had left artful far behind, and had now, by a roundabout route, arrived at straightforward.
But least is he who, with enchanted eyes
Filled with high visions of fair shapes to be,
Muses which god he shall immortalize
In the proud Parian's perpetuity,
Till twilight warns him from the punctual skies
That the night cometh wherein none shall see.
A sharp character - no youth as I feared - a Faubourg Marigny type, Mediterranean, big-nosed, lumpy-jawed, a single stitched-in wrinkle over his eyebrows from just above which there springs up a great pompadour of wiry bronze hair. His face aches with it. He has no use for me at all.
Franz Klammer was my great idol in my younger years.
I know not whether, in the eyes of the world, a brilliant death is not preferred to an obscure life of rectitude. Most men are remembered as they died, and not as they lived. We gaze with admiration upon the glories of the setting sun, yet scarcely bestow a passing glance upon its noonday splendor.
A tall, dark, cold eyed, warm lipped, firm chinned, young man of thirty
The man whose silent daysIn harmless joys are spent,Whom hopes cannot delude,Nor sorrow discontent:That man needs neither towersNor armour for defence,Nor secret vaults to flyFrom thunder's violence.
An artisan without memories, whose only dream was to die of fatigue in the oblivion and misery of his little gold fishes.
Liberty of imagination should be the most precious possession of a novelist. To try voluntarily to discover the fettering dogmas of its own inspiration, is a trick worthy of humna perverseness which, after inventing an absurdity, endeavours to find for it a pedigree of distinguished ancestors ...
He was a noble man, as well as a nobleman." * "Mannerheim did not grow up among the masses, but in a castle.... he was a cosmopolite in the age of nationalism; an aristocrat in the age of democracy; a conservative in the age of revolutions."t
Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche commenting on the music of Georges Bizet: His music has the tang of sunny climates, their bracing air, their clearness. It voices a sensibility hitherto unknown to us.
Blindur er boklaus madur - Blind is the bookless man.
The purely Great
Whose soul no siren passion could unsphere,
Thou nameless, now a power and mixed with fate.
medhermeneutical
a line from Tolkien materializing in my head, one does not simply walk into Mordor. We
Ulrich the Axe, famed for his bloody deeds among Christians and pagans alike.
Today the artist has inherited the combined functions of hermit, pilgrim, prophet, priest, shaman, sorcerer, soothsayer, alchemist.
That great lover of peace, a man of giant stature who moulded, as few other men have done, the destinies of his age.
Frightfully pale and perpetually odd
He was a shadow of the man that once intimidated us out of our home, a shell of a human being, a fragment of a father.
God, the Master Weaver. He stretches the yarn and intertwines the colors, the ragged twine with the velvet strings, the pains with the pleasures. Nothing escapes his reach.
My mom stares at him in disbelief. "This is thanks to your schemes. You pressured her to choose you ... to choose Wonderland over her other side. What did you think would happen?"
Morpheus hunches lower, miserable.
The man of today, who resembles more or less the collective ideal, has made his heart into a den of murderers, as can easily be proved by the analysis of his unconscious, even though he himself is not in the least disturbed by it.
It has always been Oscar Peterson. He is my Rachmaninoff.
Abraham Maslow, I present to you Augustus Waters, whose existential curiosity dwarfed that of his well-fed, well-loved, healthy brethren.
Such was a poet and shall be and is
-who'll solve the depths of horror to defend a sunbeam's architecture with his life: and carve immortal jungles of despair to hold a mountain's heartbeat in his hand.
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical,
Shakes so my single state of man
That function is smothered in surmise,
And nothing is but what is not.
The marvelous Maker!
Mort Meskin was a consummate professional, dedicated to his work. A great talent.
In the name of all the elves in Christendom, is that Jane Eyre?
His features are strong and masculine, with an Austrian lip and arched nose, his complexion olive, his countenance erect, his body and limbs well proportioned, all his motions graceful, and his deportment majestic. He
For the commission to do a great building, I would have sold my soul like Faust. Now I had found my Mephistopheles. He seemed no less engaging than Goethe's.
Coelorum perrupit claustra.
He broke through the barriers of the skies.
[Herschel's epitaph]
Norbert the Norwegian Ridgeback