FEAR DEATH BY WATER
“Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.”
T S Eliot, from “The Waste Land”.
I am not sure whether I am entirely happy with this piece. So I am leaving it as it is, for now.
THE PAGE OF CUPS
“From this arid sphere every discourse and every poem sets forth; and every journey through forests, battles, treasures, banquets, bedchambers, brings us back here, to the centre of an empty horizon.”
- Italo Calvino, “The Castle of Crossed Destinies” (Il Castello dei Destini Incrociati) 1973.
Final version, from previous post.
“Then which river is the longest, Tommy?”
Tommy burst into tears. “I don’t know,” he howls.
“Brave New World”, Aldous Huxley
are both frame and monument
to our spent time,
and too little
has been said
of our coming through and leaving by them.”
From “The Door”, Charles Tomlinson.
Yon rising moon that looks for us again–
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;
How oft hereafter rising look for us
Through this same Garden–and for one in vain!
And when like her, oh, Saki, you shall pass
Among the guests star-scatter’d on the Grass,
And in your joyous errand reach the spot
Where I made One–turn down an empty Glass!
The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, trans. Edward FitzGerald.
For David Lewis James, 1941-2012.
THE ORDER OF THINGS
“Museums and libraries are heterotopias in which time never ceases to pile up and perch on its own summit… the idea of accumulating everything, the idea of constituting a sort of general archive, the desire to contain all times, all ages, all forms, all tastes in one place, the idea of constituting a place of all times that is itself outside time and protected from its erosion, the project of thus organizing a kind of perpetual and indefinite accumulation of time in a place that will not move – well. in fact, all this belongs to our modernity…”
Michel Foucault 1998