๐น๐‘œ๐“Š๐“ƒ๐’น Love and Indifference

To have that sense of one’s intrinsic worth which, for better or for worse, constitutes self-respect, is potentially to have everything: the ability to discriminate, to love and to remain indifferent. To lack it is to be locked within oneself, paradoxically incapable of either love or indifference. If we do not respect ourselves, we are on the one hand forced to despise those who have so few resources as to consort with us, so little perception as to remain blind to our fatal weaknesses. On the other, we are peculiarly in thrall to everyone we see, curiously determined to live outโ€”since our self-image is untenableโ€”their false notions of us. We flatter ourselves by thinking this compulsion to please others an attractive trait: a gift for imaginative empathy, evidence of our willingness to give. Of course we will play Francesca to Paolo, Brett Ashley to Jake, Helen Keller to anyone’s Annie Sullivan: no expectation is too misplaced, no role too ludicrous. At the mercy of those we can not but hold in contempt, we play rรดles doomed to failure before they are begun, each defeat generating fresh despair at the necessity of divining and meeting the next demand made upon us.

โ€” from “On Self-Respect” by Joan Didion

1961 (2014)

๐น๐‘œ๐“Š๐“ƒ๐’น All revolutionaries are stupid

It pains my intelligence that someone should think they can alter anything through political agitation. Iโ€™ve always considered violence, of any type, a particularly cock-eyed example of human stupidity. All revolutionaries are stupid as are all reformers, albeit to a lesser degree, because less discomfiting. Revolutionaries and reformers all make the same mistake. Lacking the power to master and reform their own attitude towards life, which is everything, or their own being, which is almost everything, they escape into wanting to change others and the external world. Every revolutionary, every reformer, is an escapee. To fight is proof of oneโ€™s inability to do battle with oneself. To reform is proof that one is oneself beyond all help. If a man of real sensitivity and correct reasoning feels concerned about the evil and injustice of the world, he naturally seeks to correct it first where it manifests itself closest to home, and that, he will find, is in his own being. The task will take him his whole lifetime. For us everything lies in our concept of the world; changing our concept of the world means changing our world, that is, the world itself, since it will never be anything other than how we perceive it. The inner sense of justice that allows us to write one beautifully fluent page, the true reformation by which we bring to life our dead sensibilities โ€“ these are the truth, our truth, the only truth. All the rest is landscape, picture frames for our feelings, bindings for our thoughts.

โ€” from The Book of Disquiet: The Complete Edition by Fernando Pessoa, edited by Jerรณnimo Pizarro, translated by Margaret Jull Costa

1929 (2017)

๐น๐‘œ๐“Š๐“ƒ๐’น Pilgrimage or Funeral

As far as I can see, in the prolix confusion of uncertain fate all gods and all men are equal. In the obscure fourth-floor room where I live, they file past me in a succession of dreams, and they are no more to me than they were to those who believed in them. The fetishes of Negroes with frightened, bewildered eyes, the animal gods of savages from tangled wildernesses, the figures the Egyptians made into symbols, the bright divinities of the Greeks, the upright gods of the Romans, Mithras, lord of the Sun and of all emotion, Jesus lord of consistency and charity, various interpretations of that same Christ, new saints, the gods of the new towns, all file past to the slow march (is it a pilgrimage or a funeral?) of error and illusion. On they all march, and behind them come the empty shadows, the dreams that the more inept dreamers believe must have come down to live on earth, simply because they cast shadows. Pathetic concepts with neither soul nor face โ€“ Freedom, Humanity, Happiness, a Better Future, Social Science โ€“ they trail through the solitude of the dark like leaves dragged along beneath the train of a regal cloak, in the eternal exile of kings, a cloak stolen by the beggars who occupied the gardens of the house of defeat.

โ€” from The Book of Disquiet: The Complete Edition by Fernando Pessoa, edited by Jerรณnimo Pizarro, translated by Margaret Jull Costa

1929 (2017)

๐น๐‘œ๐“Š๐“ƒ๐’น Black Is Me

โ€” from Tantra Song: Tantric Painting from Rajasthan, edited by Frank Andrรฉ Jamme

Undated 1600s (2011)

๐น๐‘œ๐“Š๐“ƒ๐’น a young woman with child and a young man in love with her

Iโ€™d rather think about a young woman with child and a young man in love with her even though heโ€™s not the father of her child, the two of them are the only ones in the world, and he, the young man, is thinking that the young woman makes him so happy that even though he isnโ€™t the father of the child sheโ€™s carrying he has to help her, they have to find a place where she can give birth, the young man thinks, and then the two of them, the man and the woman, go off to find a place somewhere and someone who can help, but as theyโ€™re walking it starts to rip and tear inside the young womanโ€™s body and then theyโ€™re at a farm, they go up and knock on the door but no one opens up, so either thereโ€™s no one home or else no one wants to open the door for them, but the house is dark so probably thereโ€™s no one there, so they go into the hay barn, there are some cows in the stalls, some sheep walking around in the main part of the barn, and itโ€™s probably the heatย that the animals are giving off that makes it less cold in the barn than it is outside, so the girl lies down in the straw and there she gives birth to a baby and she says that an angel has told her she would give birth to a baby boy so it must be a boy, she says, and she says that the angel told her not to be scared because God was with her and the young man sees that a light is coming from the child, an incomprehensibly beautiful light, and then the young woman takes her breast and she gives it to the baby and the boy falls silent, and he sucks, he sucks, the young man thinks, and everything about it is unbelievable because thereโ€™s such a strange light shining from the baby lying there at the young womanโ€™s breast, then she looks up at the young man and she smiles at him and the young man thinks that this, this light, no, he canโ€™t understand it, because this light from the child in the darkness

โ€” from The Other Name: Septology I-II by Jon Fosse, translated by Damion Searls

1995-99 (2019)

๐น๐‘œ๐“Š๐“ƒ๐’น ุฃุณุฃู„ู‡ู… ู…ุชู‰ ูƒุงู†ุช ุขุฎุฑ ู†ู‡ุงูŠุฉ ู„ู„ุนุงู„ู…

ูƒู†ุง ู†ุตุทุงุฏ ุงู„ู‚ุตุงุฆุฏ ุงู„ุฌูŠุฏุฉ ุจุตู†ุงุฑุฉ ุฃูˆุดูƒุช ุนู„ู‰ ุงู„ุฎุฑุณ
ูƒู„ู…ุง ู‚ุฑุฑ ุฃุญุฏู†ุง ุงู„ุงู†ุชุญุงุฑ ู†ุธุฑ ุฅู„ูŠู‡ ุงู„ุขุฎุฑ
ุฃู‚ูˆู„ ู„ุตุฏูŠู‚ูŠ ุจุตูŠุบุฉ ู…ู† ุตูŠุบ ุงู„ู…ุจุงู„ุบุฉ
ุงู„ุญูŠุงุฉ ุตุนุจุงู†ุฉ ุนู„ูŠู‘
ุจุงู„ุฑุฆุฉ ู…ุง ูŠูƒููŠ ู…ู† ุงู„ุบุฑู‚
ูˆุจุงู„ุนูŠู† ู…ุง ูŠูƒููŠ ู…ู† ุงู„ุนู…ู‰
ูˆุจู†ุง ู…ุง ูŠูƒููŠ ู…ู† ูƒู„ ู…ุง ู„ุง ู†ุญุจ
ุชูˆู‚ูุช ุนู† ุงู„ุบู†ุงุก ุญูŠู† ุงุฎุชูู‰ ุงู„ู‡ูˆุงุก
ุงู„ุตูˆุช ู„ุง ูŠู†ุชู‚ู„ ููŠ ุงู„ูุฑุงุบ ูŠุง ู†ุฏู‰
ู„ู‡ุฐุง ุฃูŠุถุง ู„ู… ุฃุนุฏ ุฃุชุตู„ ุจุฃุตุฏู‚ุงุฆูŠ
ู†ู…ุดูŠ ููŠ ุงู„ุทุฑู‚ุงุช
ูˆู†ุฐุจุญ ูƒู„ ุงู„ู…ุฑุงูŠุง ุงู„ุชูŠ ู„ุง ู†ุณุชุทูŠุน ุงู„ุชูƒู„ู… ุฃู…ุงู…ู‡ุง ุนู„ู‰ ุฑุงุญุชู†ุง
ู†ุดุฑุฎ ุญู†ุงุฌุฑู†ุง ุจุงู„ุตุฑุงุฎ ูˆู†ุฏุงุก ุงู„ู„ู‡ ูˆุงู„ู…ูˆุชู‰
ุซู… ู†ุฌู„ุณ ูƒูŠ ู†ุญูƒูŠ ุงู„ุญูˆุงุฏูŠุช ุจุตูˆุช ู…ุจุญูˆุญ
ูˆุญูˆู„ู†ุง ู…ุง ุชุจู‚ู‰ ู…ู† ุงู„ู…ุฑุงูŠุง
ุฃุชุฐูƒุฑ ุงู‚ุชุจุงุณุงุชูŠ ุงู„ู…ูุถู„ุฉ ูƒุชุฏุฑูŠุจ ูŠูˆู…ูŠ ุนู„ู‰ ุงู„ุชู†ูุณ
ุฃุญุฏูู‡ู… ู…ูŽุฑู‘ ู…ู† ู‡ู†ุงุŒ
ุฃุญุฏู‡ู… ุดุงู ู‡ุฐุง ุงู„ู…ูุฑู‘
ุฃุณุฃู„ู‡ู… ู…ุชู‰ ูƒุงู†ุช ุขุฎุฑ ู†ู‡ุงูŠุฉ ู„ู„ุนุงู„ู…ุŸ
ููŠู†ุธุฑูˆู† ุฅู„ู‰ ุณุงุนุงุชู‡ู… ุงู„ู…ุชูˆู‚ูุฉ
ูˆูŠู‚ูˆู„ูˆู† ู„ูŠ: ุบุฏู‹ุงุŒ
ุฃูˆ ูƒู…ุงู† ุดูˆูŠุฉ
โ€” ู‚ุตุฏูŠุฉ ู„ู…ุฌู‡ูˆู„ ูŠุนุฑู ู†ูุณู‡ z

2015

๐น๐‘œ๐“Š๐“ƒ๐’น Hand Washing with Homunculus

โ€” from anย illuminated manuscript of The Book of Knowledge of Ingenious Mechanical Devices by Al Jazari (1136โ€“1206)

1315

๐น๐‘œ๐“Š๐“ƒ๐’น The new hope is despair

โ€œThe hope of reason lies in the emancipation from our own fear of despair.โ€ โ€ฆย It is not despair that is the agent of imprisonment, not despair that keeps us, (or reason), in a state of unfreedom in need of emancipation; but ratherย fear. The problem is not despair, but our being afraid to feel despair. In other words, it isย not pessimismย that is a challenge to the liberating effects of rational hope, but our fearful dismissal of it. It is optimism itself that keeps us from achieving what optimism hopes for. Optimism is its own worst enemy; it is self-destructive โ€ฆ Kierkegaard suggests [we] give in to despair โ€ฆ Any life that isnโ€™t fundamentally lived in submission to God is a life lived in despair anyway, whether it is lived in pursuit of aesthetic enjoyment, or in pursuit of fundamental ethical commitments. The problem is that both sorts of life unavoidably must involve various kinds of mechanisms for covering over despair, of distracting us from it. But such mechanisms cannot succeed forever, and in fact the mechanisms usually only serve to make things worse. So the advice is just to cut to the chase, to choose hopelessness. Despair is the necessary step to God, so being openly in despair is better than trying to fool yourself that youโ€™re actually not; and in this sense despair takes you closer to God and to genuine hope.

โ€” from “Hope & Despair: Philosophical considerations for uncertain times” by Michael Stevenson

2018

๐น๐‘œ๐“Š๐“ƒ๐’น ุฑุณุงู„ุฉ ู…ู† ุฅุณู„ุงู… ุญู†ูŠุด

ู…ุฑ ุนุงู…ูŒ ูˆู†ูŠู ู…ู†ุฐ ูƒุชุงุจูŠ ุงู„ุฃุฎูŠุฑ. ูˆู‡ุฐุง ุฎุทุฃ. ุงู„ุฃู…ูˆุฑ ุนู„ู‰ ู…ุง ูŠุฑุงู… ู†ุณุจูŠู‹ุง. ู†ุธุงุฑุฉ ุงู„ุซู„ุงุซูŠู†ุงุช ุชุฎุชู„ู ุชู…ุงู…ู‹ุง ุนู…ุง ู‚ุจู„ู‡ุง. ุงู„ุญูŠุงุฉ ู…ู† ู‡ู†ุง ู„ูŠุณุช ุจุงู„ุจุณุงุทุฉ ุงู„ุชูŠ ูƒู†ุง ู†ุชุฎูŠู„ู‡ุง ู…ู† ู‚ุจู„ุŒ ุงู„ุฒูˆุฌูŠุฉ ุจุงู„ุฃุฎุต. ุฃุตุจุญุช ุจุนุฏ ุงู„ุซู„ุงุซูŠู† ุฃุญู„ู… ุฃุญู„ุงู…ู‹ุง ุบุฑูŠุจุฉุŒ ูˆุญูŠุฉ ุจุดูƒู„ ุนุฌูŠุจ. ุฃูˆุณุฎ ุชู„ูƒ ุงู„ุฃุญู„ุงู… ุนู„ู‰ ุณุจูŠู„ ุงู„ู…ุซุงู„ – ูˆุฃูƒุซุฑู‡ุง ุชูƒุฑุงุฑู‹ุง – ุฃู† ุฃุญู„ู… ุจุงู†ุญุจุงุณ ุตูˆุชูŠ. ุฃู†ุงุฏูŠ ู…ุณุชู†ุฌุฏู‹ุงุŒ ูุฃุดุนุฑ ุจุตูˆุชูŠ ูƒุนุฌูŠู†ุฉ ู…ุฑุฎูŠุฉุŒ ุชุชู…ุฏุฏ ููŠ ูƒุณู„ุŒ ูู„ุง ูŠุตู„. ุซู… ุฃุณุชูŠู‚ุธ ูุฒูุนู‹ุงุŒ ูˆุฃุชุดุจุซ ุจุฃู‚ุฑุจ ู‚ุทุนุฉ ุฃุซุงุซ ุชู‚ุงุจู„ู†ูŠ. ุฃุชุนู„ู… ุฃู†ูŠ ุจู„ุช ููŠ ูุฑุงุดูŠ ู…ุซู„ ุงู„ุฃุทูุงู„ ู…ู†ุฐ ูŠูˆู…ูŠู†ุŸ ุงุนุชู‚ุฏุช ููŠ ุจุฏุงูŠุฉ ุงู„ุฃู…ุฑ ุฃู†ู†ูŠ ุงุญุชู„ู…ุช ู…ุซู„ู‹ุง. ูˆู„ูƒู† ุณุฑุนุงู† ู…ุง ุชุจูŠู†ุช ุฃู†ู‡ ุจูˆู„. ุจูˆู„ ูŠุง ูŠูˆุณู! ูƒู†ุช ุฃุญู„ู… ุฃู†ูŠ ุฃูุฑุบ ุถุบุทู‹ุง ุดุฏูŠุฏู‹ุง ุนู„ู‰ ุงู„ู…ุซุงู†ุฉุŒ ูˆุงุณุชูŠู‚ุธุช ุดุงุฎุฎ ุนู„ู‰ ุฑูˆุญูŠโ€ฆ ุฃูŠ ูˆุงู„ู„ู‡! ุทูŠุจ. ู†ู‡ุงูŠุชู‡. ุฃุฎุจุฑูƒ ุฃู†ูŠ ู„ู… ุฃู„ุญู‚ ู…ูˆุนุฏ ุงู„ุชู‚ุฏูŠู… ููŠ ู…ู†ุญุฉ ุงู„ู†ุดุฑ. ูˆู„ูƒู†ูŠ ู‚ุฏู…ุช ู‚ุจู„ู‡ุง ุจุดู‡ุฑ ุฃูˆ ุงุซู†ูŠู† ููŠ ู…ู†ุญุฉ ู„ุฅู†ุชุงุฌ ุงู„ุจูˆุฏูƒุงุณุชุŒ ู…ู† ู‚ุจู„ ุงู„ู…ูˆุฑุฏ ุงู„ุซู‚ุงููŠ ุจุงู„ุชุนุงูˆู† ู…ุน ุจูŠ.ุจูŠ.ุณูŠ. ูˆู„ู… ูŠุฎุชุงุฑูˆู†ูŠ ุจุงู„ุทุจุน. ุฃููƒุฑ ุญุงู„ูŠู‹ุง ููŠ ู†ุดุฑ ุงู„ุฏูŠูˆุงู† ุฌุฏูŠู‹ุงุŒ ูˆู„ูƒู† ุงู„ุนู„ูˆู‚ูŠุฉุŒ ูƒู…ุง ุชุนู„ู…ุŒ ุฃุนูŠุช ู…ู† ูŠุฏุงูˆูŠู‡ุงุŒ ูˆุชู…ู†ุนู†ูŠ ู…ู† ุงู„ุนู…ู„ ุฌุฏูŠู‹ุง ูƒู…ุง ุฃููƒุฑ. ู…ุฑูู‚ ุทูŠู‡ ุตูˆุฑุฉ ู„ุฃูˆู„ ุฃุญุฌูŠุฉ (ุจุงุฒู„) ุฑูƒุจู†ุงู‡ุง ุณูˆูŠู‹ุง ุฃู†ุง ูˆุฐูˆ ุงู„ู†ูˆู†. ู„ู‚ุฏ ูˆุถุน ููŠู‡ุง ุงู„ูƒุซูŠุฑ ู…ู† ุงู„ุฌู‡ุฏ (ุฑุบู… ุญุฑูƒุชู‡ ุงู„ู…ูุฑุทุฉ)ุŒ ู„ูŠุญุงูˆู„ ุงุชุจุงุน ุชุนู„ูŠู…ุงุชูŠุŒ ูˆุงู„ุชุฑูƒูŠุฒ ููŠ ูƒู„ ู‚ุทุนุฉ. ู„ุนู†ุฉ ุงู„ู„ู‡ ุนู„ู‰ ุงู„ุฌูŠู†ุงุช. ูˆุงู„ุณู„ุงู… ุฎุชุงู….

2019

๐น๐‘œ๐“Š๐“ƒ๐’น Blissfully Metricized

Academia is not alone in dealing with the pernicious effects of this new system. With Facebook now one of the worldโ€™s largest corporations, it is not a loose analogy to say that clicks, likes, follows, page views, and so on are at the foundation of a new global economy. Clicks have radically transformed journalism, for instance, which explains in part why so many New York Times opinion pieces now have all the tone and nuance of a tweet. Increasingly, it is as tweets that they are conceived.

The same click-swipe-and-rate economy has left everyone involved in cultural production dazed and stumbling. Journalism, art, literature, and entertainment have been engulfed by a tsunami of metrics. And dare we mention love, friendship, and political community? These, too, have been absorbed by the mania of metrics coupled with so-called gamification โ€” a treacherous imitation of play. A flood of neurochemicals saturates our dried-out brains when a heart or a thumbs-up pops up in response to a text, or when our dating profiles get a match, or when our hasty yet emphatic political opinions or our pseudo-humble tales of small daily failures are praised and echoed back to us. The more we swipe in the right direction, or achieve whatever minor virality we can get, the more we are rewarded, and the more we hone our future swipes and tweets and posts. The first flood triggers another, and we float along blissfully metricized, trading our subjectivity for an algorithm.

โ€” from “How Social Media Imperils Scholarship” by Justin E. H. Smith

2019

๐น๐‘œ๐“Š๐“ƒ๐’น And All This Comes to an End

And you would walk out with me to the western corner of the

castle,

To the dynastic temple, with water about it clear as blue jade,

With boats floating, and the sound of mouth-organs and drums,

With ripples like dragon-scales, going grass green on the water,

Pleasure lasting, with courtezans, going and coming without

hindrance,

With the willow flakes falling like snow,

And the vermilioned girls getting drunk about sunset,

And the water a hundred feet deep reflecting green eyebrows

โ€”Eyebrows painted green are a fine sight in young moonlight,

Gracefully paintedโ€”

And the girls singing back at each other,

Dancing in transparent brocade,

And the wind lifting the song, and interrupting it,

Tossing it up under the clouds.

And all this comes to an end.

And is not again to be met with.

โ€” from “Exiles Letter” in Ezra Pound’s Cathay

1915

๐น๐‘œ๐“Š๐“ƒ๐’น On Plagiarism

The kernel, the soul โ€” let us go further and say the substance, the bulk, the actual and valuable material of all human utterances โ€” is plagiarism. For substantially all ideas are secondhand, consciously and unconsciously drawn from a million outside sources, and daily used by the garnerer with a pride and satisfaction born of the superstition that he originated them; whereas there is not a rag of originality about them anywhere except the little discoloration they get from his mental and moral caliber and his temperament, and which is revealed in characteristics of phrasing.

โ€” from “The Ecstasy of Influence” by Jonathan Lethem

2007

๐น๐‘œ๐“Š๐“ƒ๐’น A literary version of the Sony Walkman and the Honda Civic

Murakamiโ€™s pronouncements matter because heโ€™s Murakami, โ€œone of the worldโ€™s foremost novelists,โ€ as AFP put it. But if this is why the English language press latched onto Murakamiโ€™s comments while overlooking Levyโ€™s interview, then weโ€™ve arrived at the sad intersection of literary authorship and Oprah-ism, wherein the mediaโ€™s limited attention span necessitates the selection of a single, self-perpetuating fame figure for whom publicly-disseminated thoughtfulness is reserved.

Credit The New Yorker and other well-moneyed American publishing interests. Murakami โ€“ as English readers (including the Swedish Academy) know him โ€“ is their fabrication. Translator Stephen Snyderโ€™s work traces the shaping of Murakamiโ€™s brand by Robert Gottlieb and examines how Gottliebโ€™s successor, Deborah Treisman, has fixated on conjuring “the next Murakami.” To the credulous, this is an effort to keep Japanese literature in The New Yorkerโ€™s tent; to the observant, itโ€™s an attempt to construct an exotic, saleable faรงade for American fictionโ€™s tired idioms (the lack of a viable American Nobel candidate is an exhausted topic). As Snyder has noted, Murakamiโ€™s American investors set out to turn him into a โ€œliterary version of the Sony Walkman and the Honda Civic.โ€

This would be fine if it resulted in the publication of more Japanese literature. But Gottlieb and Treisman havenโ€™t given us Japanese literature. They have given us Treisman and Gottlieb. Their fingerprints are omnipresent in the New Yorker versions. Alterations are not necessarily wrongful; both previous Nobel laureates from Japan were rendered by activist translators (Edward Seidensticker and John Nathan). But Nathan translated Oe with autonomy and was published by the insurgent Barney Rosset. Now comes the age of pander, where authors provide the raw cultural and biographical materials necessary to make the publishing industryโ€™s pet aesthetics marketable. Treisman โ€“ who “made” Yoko Ogawa โ€“ withdrew The New Yorkerโ€™s interest in one of Ogawaโ€™s stories after the author declined to rewrite the ending.

โ€” Dreux Richard in Japan Today

2012

๐น๐‘œ๐“Š๐“ƒ๐’น ู„ูˆ ุณุฃู„ุชูŽู†ูŠ

โ€” ู‚ุตูŠุฏุฉ “ุงู„ู„ุงุฌุฆ ูŠุญูƒูŠ” ุจุตูˆุช ุณุฑูƒูˆู† ุจูˆู„ุต

2007

๐น๐‘œ๐“Š๐“ƒ๐’น Wet-thighed

In the yellow time of pollen, in the blue time of lilacs,

in the green that would balance on the wide green world,

air filled with flux, world-in-a-belly

in the blue lilac weather, she had written a letter:

You came into my life really fast and I liked it.

 

When we let go the basket of the good-luck birds

the sky erupted open in the hail of its libation;

there was a gap and we entered it gladly. Indeed the birds

may have broken the sky and we, soaked, squelched

in the mud of our joy, braided with wet-thighed surrender.

 

In the yellow time of pollen near the blue time of lilacs

there was a gap in things. And here we are.

The sparrows flew away so fast a camera could not catch them.

The monkey swung between our arms and said I am, hooray,

the monkey of all events, the great gibbon of convergences.

 

โ€” from “Totem Poem” by Luke Davies

2004

No more posts.