Author: Biblioklept

Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, but just the punctuation.

Biblioklept2 Comments

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( ) ; . , ; , , . , , , ; , . , , , , . , . , , . , , . . ; , — — ” ; ? ” ” ; : . ” ” . , , ; , , . ” ” : , , . , ? ” ” . , , , ; , . , , , , . ” . , , . ; . — — ” , , . , , , . : . — — ; : . ” ” : , ? ” ” , ” . , ; ” , , . ” , , , , . , — — ” ! ! ; ‘ , ! ” . . , , — — ” , , , . ” ” ! ” , : ” ? , ! , ? ” ; , . , , . , , . , — — ” — — — — ? ” , , , ; . ” , ! ” , , . ” , . — — ” ; . ” ! , , ” ; ” , , . ” , . . , . , . , , . , . . ! ? , . , ! , , ; , , . , ; , . . ; , , – , . . , . , . , ; . , , . ; . ; , , , . , , , ; , , . . , — — ; . , , ; , , ; , , , : , ; . ; . , . , ; , , , , , . , : , — — . . ; . , , . – – , . . , , . ; . ; , , , , , , . , , ; , , . , , , . ; , . , ; . , , . ; . – ; ‘ , ; . , , , ; : ; : , , , , . . . , . , . ‘ ; , . . . , ! , , , . . , , . , , , , , ! , . , . ” ! , ” , ” . , , . , , , ; ; — — . , , — — . ” , , ; , , , , , , . , . ; . , , , . , , , . , . ; . , , ” , ? , . ” ” , ” ; ” , , . ; . , , ; , , . ” , , . , , . : , ; . – , , ; . , : — — ” , ” ; , . , ! . , ; , . ” , . , ; . ” ! ; ? 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; , . , , ; . ; , , . . ; . , ! , — — , , , , , . , , ! ; : , . ? ; , . , , ; , . , , . ; , , . , , , , , . , — — , . , . ; ; , , , ; ; . : — — ” , , ” , ” . ” ” , ” ; ” , , . , , , , . , . ” , , , ; ; , . , , , , . , ; , , , . , , ” , . , . ” . ; , . , , , ” ; . , ? , , , . ” ” ; , , . : , . ” , ; : — — ” , ” , ” ; , . , , ; , , . ” ” ; . ; , , . , , , . : ; , , . ” ; , , , . , , . , . ” , ” , ” ! ; . ” , . . . ; ; , , . ; , , , , , , . , , . , . , , , . ; , . ; , . , . ; , . , , , . , . , , ; ; . , , , . . , ; , . , , , ” , , , ; , , , , , . : , , , . , ; , , . ; . ” , ; , . . ; – , . , , , . ; – , , — — ” : ! , . ” ; . , , . ; . , , . ; , , , . ; , . , , . , , ; , , , . , . , , , , ? , , , ; , ; ; , , . , , , , , . , , , ; . , , , , , , . , , ; , . ; . , ; , , , . , , , . ! , , , . , , , . , . : , , ; , ‘ , . , , , . ! , , ! , , , , , , . . , , , , , . ” , ” ( ; ) ” , . ; , , . , , ; , . , ; ; . ” ! ; , , . , ; , , ! , , . , – . , ; . . : — — ” ! : , ; . ” ; ; , , , , . ! ! , . , . ; , , , , ‘ , . , . ; , , : , , ‘ , . , , , – . , . , , , ; , . , , , , , , – , ; , . , . ; , — — , , , . , , , , . , , , . – ; , . ; , . , , . , . , ; , , . , . , – , , , , , . , , – . ! ! , , ; , , , . : , ; , ‘ , , , . ; , – . ; , ‘ , , . , , , . ; , , . , . ; ; , , , . : , , , . ; ; , , . , . ; , , – . , , . . . , — — . ! , , ; , ? , , , ; , . , ? ; . , , ; , — — , . ; : . , . ; , , , , , , . , . , . , — — . , ; , ? , , ; , , , . , , . , , ; , , , . , ; , , , , . ! ; . ‘ : . ” , ? ” ; ” ? ? , ! , . ” : , ; . ” , ” , ” . ” , . , , , , , . ; , , ? , ! . , : , , , , , , . . . , . ; , , , . , ! , . ” , ” , ” . ; . , ; – . , , . , , . ; , , . , ; , . , , . , , . ; ! ! , , . ; , , , . ” ? ; . , ; , , , . , . ” , , ” , ” ; , , ? ; ? , , . , , , ; . , , , , , , , . , , ; , , , . ; . , – , . ; ; , . ” . , , , , . , , . , , ; . , . . , . , , ? , . , , . ! , – , , . , ; : , ! . ; . , , , , . : , ; , , , – , . ; , . . , , . , . , . : ; , , , . . , — — , , — — , . , . , , , , . , ; , , , , , , . , , , . . ; , . , , , ? ; , , , , , ; , . , — — ” ? ? ? ? ? , ; , , , ; , . , . ; , , . , , , , , , , ; , , , – . , ; , , . ! , . , . ; , , . . , , . ” , , ? , . ; , : , ; , , . , ; , . , ; , — — . ; , , . . ; , . ; . , . . ; . ; — — . , ; , , , . , , , . ; , , , , . , ; , . , , , – . , , , . ” , ” , ” . ” ” ? ” ” ! ; . , . ” ” , ; . , , . ; . ” , , ; , . ; . ; , . , . , . ; , . , ; , ; , , , — — ” ! ; , , , . , , , , ; . ; . , , , , – . ; . , . , , , . , : ; , , ; . , , . , . , ; , . ” , ; , , . , , ; . , . ” ; , , , . , . , ! , , . ? , . ” ; , , . , ; , , . , ? , ? . ; . , . . ? ; , . ; , ; . , . , . ! ! . ; . , – . ; , . , ; , . , , . , , . , . . , ; , , , . ” ! ” : ” ; ! , ! – ! ? , . ! , . ” ; , , , . ; , . , . – . : ” , ” , ” . , , , . ” ? ” ; ” ? — — , ” , , ” — — ! – . , . ? ; , , , . ” , , – . ; : . , , ; , , . , . ; , , , , . ! — — , . , , . . , . . ; ! ” ; , , , . ” ! ” , ” . ; , , , . ! , , , . ; . ” ” , — — , ” ; ” . – . . , , , . , , , ? , : , . , , . , , , . . . , , , , . , . ; . ; . ” , , . , , , . , . ; , . ? , ? , ? ? , ! , , , , , . . ” . ; , . , , ; . , . ; . ; , , . ” . . ‘ , ; . . – , ; , , , . . , , . ; , . , . , , ; . , , , , , ; . , , ? ” ! , . , ! , , . ; , ; , , , . , ; . ” , ” , , ” , . . , . ; . ; , . . ” – , , – . , . .

 

Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, but just the punctuation.

A Skeleton and Two Figures in a Gothic Building — George Dance

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A Skeleton and Two Figures in a Gothic Building by George Dance (1741 – 1825)

“All art constantly aspires to the condition of a car on fire”

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“The Nobel Prize” — Robert Walser

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“The Nobel Prize”

by

Robert Walser

translated by Tom Whalen

Today, thank God, I’m back in the pink again, which I definitely deserve because I’m a nice person. How was it for me yesterday? I was emotionally ill. Full of thoughts, I ran about vehemently and at the same time galled. And why was that? I believed my colleague Hopeful had won the Nobel Prize in Literature. A notice in the paper had fooled me. How gullible I am! I took my countryman High-hope for the happiest person and myself in consequence for the unhappiest. I imagined all the pretty girls had already composed the most talented satirical poems about me. Yet nevertheless, with what strength, what grandeur I conducted myself! With what composure I strode forth. I can barely describe it. In any case I’m satisfied with myself. I had received an apparently hard blow, but inwardly I did not refuse, not even for a minute, to accept the perfidy of fate. This morning I checked and learned that Persistence, not Hopeful, had received the Nobel Prize. Persistence is someone whom I do not begrudge the honor. The sensations one has. Regarding my dear compatriot Hopejoy, I can calm myself. This pleases me, and since I’m full of joy, I can allow myself to be seen again. Yesterday I thought I had become impossible to my countrymen. Thankfully this unpleasant notion had to retreat. My friend Hopeful is at work. I want to be as well. I can now. I’m capable of this anew. To the same extent that Persistence was crowned with the Nobel Prize, I am crowned with the most cheerful serenity. Yesterday I was like a snapped-off plant, while today I’m a sturdy tree. What illusions can do to us! Brain power, you’re weird! Now that this Nobel Prize business no longer weighs on me, how noble I seem. Yes, the world is gay and serious.

Geisha and Fox — Masami Teraoka

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Geisha and Fox, 1988 by Masami Teraoka (b. 1936)

“The Executioner’s Beautiful Daughter” — Angela Carter

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“The Executioner’s Beautiful Daughter”

by

Angela Carter

Here, we are high in the uplands.

A baleful almost-music, that of the tuneless cadences of an untutored orchestra repercussing in an ecstatic agony of echoes against the sounding boards of the mountains, lured us into the village square where we discover them twanging, plucking and abusing with horsehair bows a wide variety of crude stringed instruments. Our feet crunch upon dryly whispering shifting sawdust freshly scattered over impacted surfaces of years of sawdust clotted, here and there, with blood shed so long ago it has, with age, acquired the colour and texture of rust . . . sad, ominous stains, a threat, a menace, memorials of pain.

There is no brightness in the air. Today the sun will not irradiate the heroes of the dark spectacle to which accident and disharmony combined to invite us. Here, where the air is choked all day with diffuse moisture tremulously, endlessly the point of becoming rain, light falls as if filtered through muslin so at all hours a crepuscular gloaming prevails; the sky looks as though it is about to weep and so, gloomily illuminated through unshed tears, the tableau vivant before us is suffused with the sepia tints of an old photograph and nothing within it moves. The intent immobility of the spectators, wholly absorbed as they are in the performance of their hieratic ritual, is scarcely that of living things and this tableau vivant might be better termed a nature morte for the mirthless carnival is a celebration of a death. Their eyes, the whites of which are yellowish, are all fixed, as if attached by taut, invisible strings upon a wooden block lacquered black with the spilt dews of a millennia of victims.

And now the rustic bandsmen suspend their unmelodious music. This death must be concluded in the most dramatic silence. The wild mountain-dwellers are gathered together to watch a public execution; that is the only entertainment the country offers.

Time, suspended like the rain, begins again in silence, slowly. Continue reading ““The Executioner’s Beautiful Daughter” — Angela Carter” →

Posted in Art

Hell talkt my brain awake (“Dream Song #30,” John Berryman)

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“Ghosts” — Robert Walser

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“Ghosts”

by

Robert Walser

translated by Tom Whalen

I don’t know if it can be to my advantage to review a kind of dime novel in which, as far as I can remember, there stood in a pretty little town a haunted tower.

In my opinion ghosts are very modern. It seems to me it’s become fashionable to believe, with a certain persistent willfulness, in inexplicable appearances.

One must admit this takes courage. As for me, I lived temporarily, if I dare say so straight out, in a bright, wide, two-windowed room. One night I awoke in bed and saw, on one of the armchairs or stools that came with the room, someone sitting.

Something nonexistent was existent, for when I had gone nearer to inspect or examine the place, the something (undoubtedly I was dealing with a ghost here) had evaporated.

To return to my little booklet in which, among other things, a young woman danced: it’s been quite some time since I perused this work, which dealt mainly with an ingenious Hans who, in all innocence and innocuousness, pulled off, as it were, a stroke of genius.

The landscape seemed to me delightfully sketched; the subject matter revolved as much around money as around love. A little river that stretched around the town the author had charmingly entrusted to blab mysterious things. The brooklet in this regard proved to be immensely talented, since it busily burbled and babbled night and day.

Attentively I listened in on the engaging story. Roles were swapped, young sophisticated girls sat in the pleasing interiors of music stores, into which one glanced in passing.

Hans proved to be a complications-disentangler.

I like to imagine my up-to-the-minute diction as tabloidish. I hope this will be judged kindly.

A beautiful woman sat interestingly ghostlike, I mean conspicuously thin, thus in fashion, at a window. Hans bestowed upon her his interest. In his eyes lay so much justifiable or baseless melancholy that the woman leapt up in bewilderment.

These and similar events occurred in the little volume whose author I don’t name because he hardly wishes it. There are little books we read as if we’re eating something delicious. We quickly forget them. After a certain amount of time, perhaps we recall them again. They’re like people we’re capable of loving because they’re not difficult. I also wish this for what I have written here.

Picnic at Wittenham — George Warner Allen

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Picnic at Wittenham, 1948 by George Warner Allen 1916-1988

October — William Merritt Chase

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October, 1893 by William Merritt Chase (1849-1916)

Uzbek Woman in Tashkent — Vasily Vereshchagin

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Uzbek Woman in Tashkent, 1873 by Vasily Vereshchagin (1842-1904)

Any serious writer is experimental in that he’s trying to do something new or better | Cormac McCarthy

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McCarthy’s works have been termed “experimental” by most critics but he thinks that can be said of most serious writers. “Any serious writer is experimental in that he’s trying to do something new or better.” A serious writer, he adds, sits down and begins to write and develop the story as he goes along. “He doesn’t just sit down and 70,000 or 80,000 words come full blown into his head.” He suggests that anyone who intends to write “read to know what’s been written before—both good and bad.” This point complements the theory of author as experimenter, for, as McCarthy said, “you will see things in other writers you admire and that you think you can do better.”

From a November, 1968 feature on Cormac McCarthy published in The Lexington Herald-Leader. The article is included in “Cormac McCarthy’s Interviews in Tennessee and Kentucky, 1968–1980,” published in The Cormac McCarthy Journal. The last feature in the collection centers on McCarthy’s efforts to adapt William Faulkner’s novel As I Lay Dying into a film.

RECENT HISTORY OF THE WORKERS OF THE WORLD | Don DeLillo

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The day after that he experienced what at first he thought might be some variation of déjà vu. He’d finished lunch and stood at the door of a corner restaurant, able to see, at a severe angle, the lean elderly man who frequently appeared outside Federal Hall holding a hand-lettered political placard over his head for the benefit of those gathered on the steps. He, Lyle, was cleaning his fingernails, surreptitiously, using a toothpick he’d taken from a bowl near the cash register inside the restaurant. The paradox of material flowing backward toward itself. In this case there was no illusion involved. He had stood on this spot, not long ago, at this hour of the day, doing precisely what he was doing now, his eyes on the old man, whose body was aligned identically with the edge of a shadow on the façade of the building he faced, his sign held at the same angle, it seemed, the event converted into a dead replica by means of structural impregnation, the mineral replacement of earlier matter. Lyle decided to scatter the ingredients by heading directly toward the man instead of back to the Exchange, as he was certain he’d done the previous time. First he read the back of the sign, the part facing the street, recalling the general tenor. Then he sat on the steps, with roughly a dozen other people, and reached for his cigarettes. Burks was across the street, near the entrance to the Morgan Bank. People were drifting back to work. Lyle smoked a moment, then got up and approached the sign-holder. The strips of wood that steadied the edges of the sign extended six inches below it, giving the man a natural grip. Burks looked unhappy, arms folded across his chest.
“How long have you been doing this?” Lyle said. “Holding this sign?”

The man turned to see who was addressing him.

“Eighteen years.”

Sweat ran down his temples, trailing pale outlines on his flushed skin. He wore a suit but no tie. The life inside his eyes had dissolved. He’d made his own space, a world where people were carvings on rock. His right hand jerked briefly. He needed a haircut.

“Where, right here?”

“I moved to here.”

“Where were you before?”

“The White House.”

“You were in Washington.”

“They moved me out of there.”

“Who moved you out?”

“Haldeman and Ehrlichman.”

“They wouldn’t let you stand outside the gate.”

“The banks sent word.”

Lyle wasn’t sure why he’d paused here, talking to this man. Dimly he perceived a strategy. Perhaps he wanted to annoy Burks, who obviously was waiting to talk to him. Putting Burks off to converse with a theoretical enemy of the state pleased him. Another man moved into his line of sight, middle-aged and heavy, a drooping suit, incongruous pair of glasses—modish and overdesigned. Lyle turned, noting Burks had disappeared.

“Why do you hold the sign over your head?”

“People today.”

“They want to be dazzled.”

“There you are.”

Lyle wasn’t sure what to do next. Best wait for one of the others to move first. He took a step back in order to study the front of the man’s sign, which he’d never actually read until now.

RECENT HISTORY

OF THE WORKERS OF THE WORLD

CIRCA 1850–1920 Workers hands cut off on Congo rubber plantations, not meeting work quotas. Photos in vault Bank of England. Rise of capitalism.

THE INDUSTRIAL AGE Child labor, accidents, death. Cruelty = profits. Workers slums Glasgow, New York, London. Poverty, disease, separation of family. Strikes, boycotts, etc. = troops, police, injunctions. Bitter harvest of Ind. Revolution.

MAY 1886 Haymarket Riot, Chicago, protest police killings of workers, 10 dead, 50 injured, bomb blast, firing into crowd.

SEPT 1920 Wall St. blast, person or persons unknown, 40 dead, 300 injured, marks remain on wall of J. P. Morgan Bldg. Grim reminder.

FEB 1934 Artillery fire, Vienna, shelling of workers homes, 1,000 dead inc. 9 Socialist leaders by hanging/strangulation. Rise of Nazis. Eve of World War, etc.

There was more in smaller print fitted onto the bottom of the sign. The overweight man, wilted, handkerchief in hand, was standing five feet away. Lyle, stepping off the sidewalk, touched the old man, the sign-holder, as he walked behind him, putting a hand on the worn cloth that covered his shoulder, briefly, a gesture he didn’t understand. Then he accompanied the other man down to Bowling Green, where they sat on a bench near a woman feeding pigeons.

From Don DeLillo’s novel Players.

More evil than we’d imagined | From Don DeLillo’s novel Players

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Our big problem in the past, as a nation, was that we didn’t give our government credit for being the totally entangling force that it was. They were even more evil than we’d imagined. More evil and much more interesting. Assassination, blackmail, torture, enormous improbable intrigues. All these convolutions and relationships. Assorted sexual episodes. Terribly, terribly interesting, all of it. Cameras, microphones, so forth. We thought they bombed villages, killed children, for the sake of technology, so it could shake itself out, and for certain abstractions. We didn’t give them credit for the rest of it. Behind every stark fact we encounter layers of ambiguity. This is all so alien to the liberal spirit. It’s a wonder they’re bearing up at all. This haze of conspiracies and multiple interpretations. So much for the great instructing vision of the federal government.

From Don DeLillo’s novel Players.

Crowning of the Happy Feline — Leonor Fini

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Crowning of the Happy Feline, 1974 by Leonor Fini (1908-1996)

“The Movie” — Don DeLillo

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“The Movie”

the overture for the novel Players

by Don DeLillo

Someone says: “Motels. I like motels. I wish I owned a chain, worldwide. I’d like to go from one to another to another. There’s something self-realizing about that.”

The lights inside the aircraft go dim. In the piano bar everyone is momentarily still. It’s as though they’re realizing for the first time how many systems of mechanical and electric components, what exact management of stresses, power units, consolidated thrust and energy it has taken to reduce their sensation of flight to this rudimentary tremble. Beyond the windows not a nuance of sunset remains. Four men, three women inhabit this particular frame of arrested motion. The only sound is drone. One second of darkness, all we’ve had thus far, has been enough to intensify the implied bond which, more than distance, speed or destination, makes each journey something of a mystery to be worked out by the combined talents of the travelers, all gradually aware of each other’s code of recognition. In the cabin just ahead, the meal is over, the movie is about to begin.

As light returns, the man seated at the piano begins to play a tune. Standing nearby is a woman, shy of thirty, light-haired and unhappy about flying. There’s a man to her left, holding the rim of his drinking glass against his lower lip. They’re clearly together, a couple, wearing each other.

The stewardess moves past with pillows and magazines, glancing into the cabin at the movie screen, credits super-imposed on a still image of a deserted golf course, early light. Near the entrance to the piano bar, about a dozen feet from the piano itself, are two chairs separated by an ashtray stand. Another obvious couple sits here, men in this case. Both look at the piano player, anticipating their own delight at whatever pointed comment his choice of tunes is meant to suggest.

The third woman sits near the rear of the compartment. She pops cashew nuts into her mouth and washes them down with ginger ale. She’s in her early forties, indifferently dressed. We know nothing else about her. Continue reading ““The Movie” — Don DeLillo” →

The Green Room — Salman Toor

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The Green Room, 2019 by Salman Toor (b. 1983)