‘Tis the year’s midnight, and it is the day’s, Lucy’s, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks; The sun is spent, and now his flasks Send forth light squibs, no constant rays; The world’s whole sap is sunk; The general balm th’ hydroptic earth hath drunk, Whither, as to the bed’s-feet, life is shrunk, Dead and … More A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy’s Day
Today’s writing topics, from Clio, are actually inviting: eleven things to shed in 2011, and what do you need to write? I need to write my novel, and I want to write my academic projects. This is all very obvious but I would like to underscore the novel as a need and the academic work … More Writing and Eleven Things
Todos han muerto. Murió doña Antonia, la ronca, que hacía pan barato en el burgo. Murió el cura Santiago, a quien placía le saludasen los jóvenes y las mozas, respondiéndoles a todos, indistintamente: “Buenos días, José! Buenos días, María!” Murió aquella joven rubia, Carlota, dejando un hijito de meses, que luego también murió a los … More La violencia de las horas
“Si j’étais ruisseau, ou bien touriste, vous m’aimeriez tous, comme on aime les artistes,” dit Vincent par téléphone. “Writing is a foreign language,” he said. “The best way to spell is in Phrench.” That took place in the twentieth century but perhaps I am a nineteenth century man. I am clearly a petit bourgeois or … More Si j’étais ruisseau, ou bien touriste
It seems to me so far that the current reverb exercise, in which one reflects each day, intends to foster creative activity. The implicit assumption that one does not already appreciate sunsets and make things bores me a little. I feel asked to prove once again that I can do artistic things and enjoy walks … More On Creativity (A Contrarian View)
This group apparently has a song, on this album, called “Fict or Faction,” and I am looking for it. Axé.
When dawn, wearing golden sandals, awoke me, I began to crawl, burning, shivering, to my uncurtained window; Migrating birds streamed over the dark sea. Who can quench the ingenious fires of cruelty? I was dreaming of white-fetlocked horses conferring in a meadow When dawn, wearing golden sandals, awoke me. On my stopped loom, … More Fragments
Axé.
Once, in a dry season, I wrote in large letters across two pages of a notebook that innocence ends when one is stripped of the delusion that one likes oneself. Although now, some years later, I marvel that a mind on the outs with itself should have nonetheless made painstaking record of its every tremor, … More Joan Didion, “On Self-Respect”
Y, desgraciadamente, el dolor crece en el mundo a cada rato, crece a treinta minutos por segundo, paso a paso, y la naturaleza del dolor, es el dolor dos veces y la condición del martirio, carnívora, voraz, es el dolor dos veces y la función de la yerba purísima, el dolor dos veces y el … More Los nueve monstruos
