noli me tangere for caesar’s i am

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Записи с темой: lit (список заголовков)
12:38 

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«Атом неподвижен. Он спит. Всё гладко замуровано, на поверхность жизни не пробьётся ни одного пузырька. Но если его ковырнуть. Пошевелить его спящую суть. Зацепить, поколебать, расщепить. Пропустить сквозь душу миллион вольт, а потом погрузить в лёд. Полюбить кого-нибудь больше себя, а потом увидеть дыру одиночества, чёрную ледяную дыру».

«Распад атома»,
Г. В. Иванов

@темы: archetypes: let the more loving one be me, lit

12:44 

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@темы: lit

14:10 

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лучшее решение моей жизни — запереться в ванной с томиком адамовича и не думать больше ни о чём. не слушать воду, слушать стопы, полузадушенный истошный свет, который умер раньше бога в сухом щелчке кольта, когда вселенная была ещё теннисным мячом, а гелий и водород — идеальными метафорами для любого мало-мальски уважающего себя любовного романа.

вкратце обо мне:

«От всего отрекаюсь. Ни звука
О другом не скажу я вовек.
Всё постыло. Всё мерзость и скука.
Нищ и тёмен душой человек».

вкратце обо мне:

[вставьте любое стихотворение г. в. адамовича]


*
если поэзия есть только там, где есть смерть, то, сильвия, о сильвия, три сухих мартини, должно быть, застревали пылью у тебя под кадыком, терпко и намертво.

@темы: lit, на пятой неделе поста

09:59 

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Your face did not rot
like the others—the co-pilot,
for example, I saw him

yesterday. His face is corn-
mush: his wife and daughter,
the poor ignorant people, stare

as if he will compose soon.
He was more wronged than Job.
But your face did not rot

like the others—it grew dark,
and hard like ebony;
the features progressed in their

distinction. If I could cajole
you to come back for an evening,
down from your compulsive

orbiting, I would touch you,
read your face as Dallas,
your hoodlum gunner, now,

with the blistered eyes, reads
his braille editions. I would
touch your face as a disinterested

scholar touches an original page.
However frightening, I would
discover you, and I would not

turn you in; I would not make
you face your wife, or Dallas,
or the co-pilot, Jim. You

could return to your crazy
orbiting, and I would not try
to fully understand what

it means to you. All I know
is this: when I see you,
as I have seen you at least

once every year of my life,
spin across the wilds of the sky
like a tiny, African god,

I feel dead. I feel as if I were
the residue of a stranger’s life,
that I should pursue you.

My head cocked toward the sky,
I cannot get off the ground,
and, you, passing over again,

fast, perfect, and unwilling
to tell me that you are doing
well, or that it was mistake

that placed you in that world,
and me in this; or that misfortune
placed these worlds in us.


The Lost Pilot,
James Tate

@темы: archetypes: nothing crueller than loving and being loved by a prophet, lit

19:43 

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His smiles were the garrets of a fairy palace
Where the real world would never come
Her smiles were spider bites
So he would lie still till she felt hungry
His words were occupying armies
Her laughs were an assassin's attempts
His looks were bullets daggers of revenge
His glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets
His whispers were whips and jackboots
Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing
His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway
Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks
And their deep cries crawled over the floors
Like an animal dragging a great trap
His promises were the surgeon's gag
Her promises took the top off his skull
She would get a brooch made of it
His vows pulled out all her sinews
He showed her how to make a love-knot
Her vows put his eyes in formalin
At the back of her secret drawer
Their screams stuck in the wall

Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves
Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop

In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage

In the morning they wore each other's face


Lovesong,
Ted Hughes

@темы: lit, archetypes: they blink and reality shivers, archetypes: safer to be feared than loved

19:18 

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To put one’s foot into the door of the grass,
which is the mystery, which is death as well as life, and not be afraid!
To set one’s foot in the door of death,
and be overcome with amazement!


Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches?
Mary Oliver

@темы: archetypes: let the more loving one be me, lit

19:05 

and suddenly, while reading ginsberg, i was attacked by king/lionheart feelings

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But we were never nightmare
hooligans but seekers of
the blond nose for Truth

[...]

We are a legend, invisible but
legendary, as prophesied


Back on Times Square, Dreaming of Times Square,
Allen Ginsberg

@темы: lit, archetypes: let the more loving one be me, гинзберг

23:45 

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One.
You know how this ends. There’s nothing you can do to change it, so make peace with it now. Ready your hands for the callus, shred the cloth for bandages, prepare the rosaries.

(...)

@темы: archetypes: is it suffering or goodness that makes them holy, archetypes: nothing crueller than loving and being loved by a prophet, lit

15:13 

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Параллели между перпендикулярами: Андрей Сахаров, Эдвард Теллер, Роберт Оппенгеймер

в своё время очень любила эту статью (и до сих пор люблю), потому что сравнение отцов термоядерной физики — это вообще очень полезно и показательно. конечно, некая пристрастность автора изрядно мешает (но история же, куда без этого), хотя не так сильно, как могла бы. благодаря ей (статье), понимаешь весь ужас положения Теллера, к которому до этого относишься довольно отрицательно.

@темы: lit, mr markov talking serious shit, хистори тайм

21:34 

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…И я уйду. А птица будет петь,
Как пела,
И будет сад, и дерево в саду,
И мой колодец белый.
На склоне дня, прозрачен и спокоен,
Замрёт закат, и вспомнят про меня
Колокола окрестных колоколен.
С годами будет улица иной;
Кого любил я, тех уже не станет,
И в сад мой за белёною стеной,
Тоскуя, только тень моя заглянет.
И я уйду; один — без никого,
Без вечеров, без утренней капели
И белого колодца моего…
А птицы будут петь и петь, как пели.

Хуан Рамон Хименес

@темы: lit

23:29 

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«I am a brother to dragons, and a companion to owls. My skin is black upon me, and my bones are burned with heat.»
JOB, Chapter 30, verses 29-30

@темы: lit

19:22 

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The Tyger by William Blake

@темы: lit

20:52 

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Мой дом везде, где есть небесный свод,
Где только слышны звуки песен,
Все, в чем есть искра жизни, в нем живет,
Но для поэта он не тесен.

До самых звезд он кровлей досягает
И от одной стены к другой
Далекий путь, который измеряет
Жилец не взором, но душой,

Есть чувство правды в сердце человека,
Святое вечности зерно:
Пространство без границ, теченье века
Объемлет в краткий миг оно.

И всемогущим мой прекрасный дом
Для чувства этого построен,
И осужден страдать я долго в нём
И в нём лишь буду я спокоен.

М. Ю. Лермонтов, «Мой дом»

@темы: lit

22:05 

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22:00 

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A man of words and not deeds,
Is like a garden full of weeds;
And when the weeds begin to grow;
It's like a garden full of snow;
And when the snow begins to fall,
It's like a bird upon the wall;
And when the bird away does fly,
It's like an eagle in the sky:
And when the sky begins to roar,
It's like a lion at the door;
And when the door begins to crack,
It's like a stick across your back;
And when your back begins to smart,
It's like a penknife in your heart;
And when your heart begins to bleed,
You're dead, and dead, and dead indeed.


A Man of Words and not of Deeds

@темы: lit

20:05 

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I who Krakatoa
I who everything better than a monsoon
I who open chest
I who Laelaps
I who beat better than a cloaca
I who outside the musical scale
I who Zambezi or frantic or rhombos or cannibal
I would like to be more and more humble and more lowly
always more serious without vertigo or vestige
to the point of losing myself falling
into the live semolina of a well-opened earth
Outside in lieu of atmosphere there’d be a beautiful
haze no dirt in it
each drop of water forming a sun there
whose name the same for all things
would be DELICIOUS TOTAL ENCOUNTER
so that one would no longer know what goes by
–— a star or a hope
or a petal from the flamboyant tree
or an underwater retreat
raced across by the flaming torches of aurelian-jellyfish
Then I imagine life would flood my whole being
better still I would feel it touching me or biting me
lying down I would see the finally free odors come to me
like merciful hands
finding their way
to sway their long hair in me
longer than this past that I cannot reach
Things stand back make room among you
room for my repose carrying in waves
my frightful crest of anchor-like roots
looking for a place to take hold
Things I probe I probe
me the street-porter I am root-porter
and I bear down and I force and I arcane
I omphale
Ah who leads me back toward the harpoons
I am very weak
I hiss yes I hiss very ancient things
as serpents do as do cavernous things
I whoa lie down wind
and against my unstable and fresh muzzle
against my eroded face
press your cold face of ravaged laughter
The wind alas I will continue to hear it
nigger nigger nigger from the depths
of the timeless sky
a little less loud than today
but still too loud
and this crazed howling of dogs and horses
which it thrusts at our forever fugitive heels
but I in turn in the air
shall rise a scream so violent
that I shall splatter the whole sky
and with my branches torn to shreds
and with the insolent jet of my wounded and solemn
shaft

I shall command the islands to be


Corps Perdu,
Aimé Césaire

@темы: lit

16:34 

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There, where days are cloudy and brief,
Are born a people to whom death is no sorrow.

Ф. Петрарка, канцона I «Джакомо Колонна»

@темы: lit

16:21 

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Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Dylan Thomas

@темы: lit

16:11 

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Friends meet to part; love laughs at faith;
True foes, once met, are joined till death!

The Giaour,
George Byron

@темы: lit

16:04 

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«Как будто в этом месте живёт неизвестное, безымянное божество, как будто это место -- его алтарь, где ты то ли принёс, то ли принесёшь ещё ему жертву, то ли услышал уже, то ли ещё услышишь его голос: не забывай».
И. Бродский, «Азиатские максимы»

@темы: lit

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