"The search for lightness as a reaction to the weight of living."
Interessant prosjekt og interessante tekster i ny, norsk drakt.
Once again I see you - Lisbon, the Tagus, and all -
Useless passerby of you and me,
Stranger in this place as in every other,
Accidental in life as in the soul,
Phantom wandering the halls of memory,
To the squealing of rats and the squeaking of boards,
In the doomed castle where life must be lived.........
Fernando Pessoa, from "Lisbon Revisited"
En byvandring i Lisboa - med litterær ballast i sekken - unnes alle bokelskere. :))
Those shapes I see by the sea, said Pacheco, shapes that immediately give rise to metaphorical associations, are they instruments of inspiration or of false literary quotes?
Sensing that it won't be long before her dear autistic husband goes and sits in front of the computer, she tells him that people who regularly use Google gradually lose the ability to read literary works with any kind of depth, which serves to demonstrate how digital knowledge can be linked to the recent stupidity in the world.
He has a remarkable tendency to read his life as a literary text, interpreting it with the distortions befitting the complusive reader he's been for so many years.
He belongs to an increasingly rare breed of sophisticated, literary publishers. And every day, since the beginning of this century, he has watched in despair the spectacle of the noble branch of his trade - publishers who still read and who have always been drawn to literature - gradually, surreptitiously dying out.
Dublinesque by Enrique Vila-Matas
The Arrival of Mahalaleel
It was many years ago in that dark, chaotic, unfathomble pool of time before Germaine's birth (nearly twelve months before her birth), on a night in late September stirred by innumerable frenzied winds, like spirits contending with another - now plaintively, now angrily, now with a subtle cellolike delicacy capable of making the flesh rise on one's arms and neck - a night so inarticulate longing that Leah and Gideon Bellefleur in their enormous bed guarreled once again....................
Bellefleur by Joyce Carol Oates
Her er to artikler om Zweig's univers og "The Grand Budapest Hotel" den første fra the Paris Review - den andre fra The Guardian.
Kanskje relevant for folk som har trua.
Uforglemmelig! :)
Bra? Tja, har du lyst på en bok av en ung forfatter som skriver om et kjent "tema" fra irsk litteratur og fortsatt kan tåle en dose med elendighet, dysfunksjonelle familier, alkoholisme osv. - er dette boken for deg. Ryan skriver godt og vinklingen han har valgt gjør den interessant. Boken ble lastet ned på Kindle'n i fjor - jeg startet på den - la den vekk- er nå i gang igjen.
Bra - ja - boken er bra - den er til og med bedre enn bra - det er bare meg som i perioder blir lei av elendighetsbeskrivelser - uansett hvor godt de er skrevet.
We went to a play inside in town one time; I can't remember the name of it. You couldn't do that without a wife. Imagine it being found out, that you went to see a play, on your own! With a woman, you have an exuse for every kind of soft thing.
My father still lives back the road past the weir in the cottage I was reared in. I go there every day to see is he dead and every day he lets me down. He hasn't yet missed a day of letting me down.
The Spinning Heart by Donal Ryan
Literature makes us better noticers of life; we get to practice on life itself; which in turn makes us better readers of detail in literature; which in turn makes us better readers of life. And so on and on. You have only to teach literature to realize that most young readers are poor noticers. I know from my own old books, wantonly annotated twenty years ago when I was a student, that I routinely underlined for approval details and images and metaphors that strike me now as commonplace, while serenely missing things that now seem wonderful. We grow, as readers, and twenty- year-olds are relative virgins. They have not yet read enough literature to be taught by it how to read it.
A great deal of nonsense is written every day about characters in fiction - from the side of those who believe too much in character and from the side of those who believe too little. Those who believe too much have an iron set of prejudices about what characters are:we should get to "know" them; they should not be "stereotypes;" they should have an"inside" as well as an outside, depth as well as surface; they should "grow" and " develop", and they should be nice. So they should be pretty much like us.
Kan denne gamle tråden være til hjelp?
Fallet
(14. august, 1793)
Enken har gått hit selv, ingen har tvunget henne til det. Hun har banket lusene ut av de fineste klærne sine og tatt dem på seg, vasket håret i felleshusets urinbalje og bundet det opp. Hun har bedt en stille bønn, taust iakttatt av sine hedenske bofeller, skrapt det sotblandede fettet av kinnene og spist det gode måltidet de har satt frem til henne. Så har hun gått hit, hele veien opp, båret på lette skritt. Nå sitter hun her, nesten glad, forventningsfull, het i kinnene, ute på kanten med beina tekkelig innunder seg, på enkemaner, slik hun pleier å sitte der hjemme på den vesle sidebrisken under vindusgluggen.
Profetene i Evighetsfjorden av Kim Leine.
Jeg tar meg den frihet og linker deg opp mot et intervju med Stefansson.
Og enig med deg - Stefansson står på egne bein!