Bokelskere.no

Det å lage kunst etter Duchamp ville da få den konsekvens at absolutt alt er tillatt, og kunstnerisk praksis ville ikke være annet enn et sosialt spill der koder og passord symptomatisk ville indikere at visse regler burde erstatte métier for at det profesjonelle kunstnerspillet overhodet skulle kunne bli spilt. I dette forringede simulakret av aristokratisk etikette ville den moderne utopien «Alle mennesker er kunstnere» ikke bety annet enn «Alle mennesker er dandyer».

But man, proud man,
Drest in a little brief authority,
Most ignorant of what he’s most assur'd;
His glassy essence, like an angry ape,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven,
As make the angels weep.

Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.

ISABELLA
Yet show some pity.

ANGELO
I show it most of all when I show justice;
For then I pity those I do not know,
Which a dismiss'd offence would after gall;
And do him right that, answering one foul wrong,
Lives not to act another. Be satisfied;
Your brother dies to-morrow; be content.

ISABELLA
So you must be the first that gives this sentence,
And he, that suffer's. O, it is excellent
To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous
To use it like a giant.

Den Gang når jeg var Pige

Statsministeren sier det stortingsmannen sier det professoren sier det direktøren sier det radiofolk sier det mannen i gata sier det:

NÅR

jeg spiste middag i går fant jeg et hår i suppa.

DA

jeg var ung, sa vi ikke det. Vi sa bare

NÅR

hvis vi fant et hår i suppa h v e r g a n g vi spiste. Så det blir jo en liten forskjell. Men det ordner seg nok

DA

vi får en ny språk-komité,

Vil man tænke hendes Idee, da gaaer det En som Den, der stirrer ind i et Hav af Taagebilleder, der bestandigt danne sig, eller som Den, der forvildes ved at skue i Bølgerne, hvis Skumpiger bestandigt gjække, thi hendes Idee er kun et Mulighedens Værksted

Hvad skal der komme? Hvad skal Fremtiden bringe? Jeg veed det ikke, jeg ahner Intet. Naar en Edderkop fra et fast Punkt styrter sig ned i sine Conseqventser, da seer den bestandig et tomt Rum foran seg, hvori den ikke kan finde Fodfæste, hvormeget den end sprætter.

"Sometimes I get so excited thinking about my morning coffee," Mr. Söderblad said, "I can't fall asleep at night."

Finally he abandoned the Italian idea altogether and fixed on the only other lunch he could think of - a salad of wild rice, avocado, and smoked turkey breast. The problem then was to find ripe avocados. In store after store he found either no avocados or walnut-hard avocados. He found ripe avocados that were the size of limes and cost $3.89 apiece. He stood holding five of them and considered what to do. He put them down and picked them up and put them down and couldn't pull the trigger. He weathered a spasm of hatred of Denise for having guilted him into inviting his parents to lunch. He had the feeling that he'd never eaten anything in his life but wild-rice salad and tortellini, so blank was his culinary imagination.

He lowered the blinds and drank the wine, and brought himself off again and again, and ate two more cupcakes, detecting peppermint in them, a faint buttery peppermint, before he slept.

[...] he suspected that the minimum price of further conversation with her would be an overpriced lunch of mesquite-grilled autumn vegetables and a bottle of Sancerre for which he had no conceivable way of paying.

In Denise's kitchen, after shopping, she peeled potatoes immaculately or rolled out simple doughs while the cook contrived lagniappes for a child's palate: wedges of pear, strips of homemade mortadella, elderberry sorbet in a doll-size bowl of elderberry soup, lambsmeat ravioli Xed with mint-charged olice oil, cubes of fried polenta.

She'd quit school and worked to save money for a year, had taken six months in France and Italy, and had returned to Philly to cook at a thronged fish-and-pasta place off Catharine Street.

She taught them how to make spinach pasta and how to tango.

"There's a poached salmon in the fridge. A crème fraîche with sorrel. A salad with green beans and hazelnuts. You'll se the wine and baguette and the butter. It's good fresh butter from Vermont."

I have heard the pigeons of the Seven Woods

Make their faint thunder, and the garden bees
Hum in the lime-tree flowers; and put away
The unavailing outcries and the old bitterness

That empty the heart. I have forgot awhile

Tara uprooted, and new commonness
Upon the throne and crying about the streets
And hanging its paper flowers from post to post,
Because it is alone of all things happy.
I am contented, for I know that Quiet

Wanders laughing and eating her wild heart
Among pigeons and bees, while that Great Archer,

Who but awaits His hour to shoot, still hangs
A cloudy quiver over Pairc-na-lee.

For that pale breast and lingering hand
Come from a more dream-heavy land,

A more dream-heavy hour than this;
And when you sigh from kiss to kiss

I hear white Beauty sighing, too,
For hours when all must fade like dew.
But flame on flame, and deep on deep,
Throne over throne where in half sleep,

Their swords upon their iron knees,

Brood her high lonely mysteries.

Og måtte rosensykens ild
I tunger små som kingelspinn
Og kvikksølvgift og råtten krill
I deres rumper trenge inn;

et skille som av og til blir borte
når jeg lengter tilbake, men ikke vet
om "tilbake" er et sted i verden eller i tiden