the passing of a great one
he was the only living writer I ever
met who I truly
admired and he was dying when I
met
him.
(we in this game are shy on praise
even toward
those who do it very well, but I never
had this
problem with J.F.)
I visited him several times at the
hospital (there was never anybody else
about) and upon entering his room
I was never sure if he was asleep
or?
"John?"
he was stretched there on that bed,
blind
and amputated:
advanced
diabetes.
"John it's
Hank...."
he would answer and then we would
talk for
a short bit (mostly he would talk and
I would
listen; after all, he was our mentor,
our
god):
Ask the Dust
Wait Until Spring, Bandini
Dago Red
all the others.
to end up in Hollywood writing
movie scripts
that's what killed
him.
"the worst thing," he told me,
is bitterness, people end up so
bitter."
he wasn't bitter, although he had
every right to
be......
at the funeral I
met several of his script-writing
buddies.
"let's write something about
John," one of them
suggested.
"I don't think I can," I
told them.
and of course, they never
did.
Charles Bukowski
oh yes
I've been so
down in the mouth
lately
that sometimes when I
bend over to
lace my shoes
there are
three
tongues,
For De vet det, kjære, at en mor er evig og alltid mor. Og barnet er evig og alltid et barn. Det er moderens og sønnens skjebne.
Herr læreren er jo...... vel, han er jo ikke lenger et barn.
Du gode Gud! Kaller De min sønn herr lærer? Nå står ikke verden til påske!
Banalt, men banaliteter er sanne (dette er også banalt; dette også; og så videre: og kanskje på enden, altså akkurat etter det uendelige semikolonet vil påstanden en eller annen gang likevel si noe nytt: . . . . )
James Wood's How Fiction Works, er en bok jeg gjerne anbefaler til andre bokelskere. Tidligere har jeg lest boken i papirformat, i kveld har jeg lastet den ned på Kindle for relesing.
Her er Erik Bjerck Hagen's omtale av boken.
Diktning og sannhet
På sykehuset
I MODERENS OG SØNNENS! Det var ikke dette jeg våknet av, for jeg sov ikke, det var denne setningen jeg skvatt til av, dette skriket som lignet et hyl, dette hvinet, som lød samtidig triumferende og resignert, krevende, men i alle fall egensindig og på en gang uselvisk, lik en sann bønn. Stemmen kjente jeg godt.
Ingen kunst av Peter Esterhazy
... each man's hell is in a different place.......
Dilettanten av Terje Holtet Larsen.
We spoke of a friend of ours who had died the night before, at forty-three. " But my God! I'm forty-one," a bearded banker said. "Don't worry," his wife, who is German, answered. "There is no order. It is not a line."
Time Tells
We are made of time.
We are its feet and its voice.
The feet of time walk in our shoes.
Sooner or later, we all know, the winds
of time will erase the tracks.
Passage of nothing, steps of no one?
The voice of time tell the voyage.
Voices of Time: A Life in Stories by Eduardo Galeano
No history is mute. No matter how much they own it, break it, and lie about it, human history refuses to shut its mouth. Despite deafness and ignorance, the time that was continues to tick inside the time that is.
- Eduardo Galeano
Your work should be an act of love, not a marriage of convenience.
"nothing matters and
we know nothing matters
and that
matters...."
I walk over and fill her drink: "you got class, doll, you're not like the
others...."
she likes that and I like it too
because to make a thing true all
you've
got to do is believe.
there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled
a space
and even during the
best moments
and the greatest
times
we will know it
My own mind is a tenement. Some elevators work. There are orange peels and muggings in the halls. Squatters and doble locks on some floors, a few flowered window boxes, half-dressed bachelors cooling on the outside fire steps; plaster falls. Sometimes it seems that this may be a nervous breakdown - sleeping all day, tears, insomnia at midnight, and again at four a.m. Then it occurs to me that a lot of people have it. Or, of course, worse.
I think sanity, however, is the most profound moral option of our time.
Enig med deg, Lillevi.
Spørsmålet i seg selv virker absurd (på meg). Men siden det er bokelskere som spør (og teller bøker), tar jeg nok grundig feil.
Solen skinner (i hvert fall i dag) jeg har helgen til egen disposisjon, og vil dele den med KInck, Bukowski, Sartre, en støvsuger, en gammel portvin og ett (lovende) manus til gjennomlesing.