He called one of his books The Diamonds. But I never managed to find a single diamond in it. You want to produce something good; you take pleasure in what you produce, like a pianist. He starts playing; at first he just practices playing three notes, then he can play twenty, and then eventually he can play all of them, and he keeps perfecting this as long as he lives. And what other people do with notes I do with words. To a turn.
Nothing else really interests me at all. And the act of writing prose is always bound up with musicality. Even now. Until they collapse. Because blisters pop, and the air sacs are blisters, so they collapse. When you step out into the street, all that stuff goes to work for you. Then when you get back home, all that stuff will find its way into whatever you write—provided that you make yourself autonomous or are autonomous to begin with.
You can learn to sing if you have a voice. A person who is congenitally hoarse and is stuck for life with his hoarseness can hardly become an opera singer. Everybody must assimilate and reject as much of everything as possible. And I have no idea how anybody becomes what he is. Nobody knows how he jumps, how he manages to pull that off.
But it impresses people. And then, after walking into the cathedral in leather shoes, he walked out of it in silk shoes. That was also his birth as a great poet: Paul Claudel. A striver is truly an atrocious thing. The world has an undertow, of course. If you strive, you become a total striver, a brownnoser. Everything else is hokum. Of course a dog also seeks out a tree or the wall of a house when he pisses. I've never given any thought to form; that has always emerged on its own, from the way I am and write.
Of course one has mentors and narratives. But I think that before Frost at bottom there had never really been anything in that vein. It was the first time anybody had written in that vein. Literature after the war had of course been oriented towards all the famous literature that had come out of America and England and France. The main character in the novels of those days was always somebody called Joe or Miss Temple or Plempl or Plampl, and because of that the literature that was written in the first fifteen years after the war ended up being a complete pile of shit.
Because it was worthless, because it stuck to being nothing but a blind, cheap, apish imitation of the Americans. After the Americans became famous and were published in huge print runs, the writers over here believed that they should write like them so that they could drive around in a Cadillac. But they just sullied our literature and never got to own a Cadillac either. So it was completely pointless. I did some stuff along those lines, but not with Joe and Miss Temple; instead I exploited certain local phenomena and genres that I had read about, along with some things from the French surrealists.
Either it works out and you sit down at your desk and write the way you just are and what you know and what you can. Once I started doing it that way it was authentic. And the poems were basically nothing as well, because they were ultimately just a spastic attempt at thrusting myself into the limelight. In a word: even though I had previously been convinced it was the most exalted and greatest thing ever, suddenly a light came on, and I told myself this is utter rubbish. I really was quite anxious after the first book. Well, in any case, you get that every now and then, this feeling; it keeps coming back periodically.
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What else would I do? Until another one occurs to you. Of course you can get ideas anytime. Of course they come to you spontaneously. Because after all, what else are you doing when you have your books published? Of course everything you write has ramifications. You can ask me about my own stuff; there are lots of sentences I remember verbatim; well, at any rate, I can remember that I wrote them; I remember that quite clearly.
I of course want to leave myself free of entanglements. All that stuff gets thrown overboard, like ballast from a balloon. You cast away bags of sand, which are your books, and then you can climb higher. And so with every book you throw out on to the ground you really should climb higher. A stupid writer, a stupid painter, is always looking for subjects; to find those all he needs to do is live his life.
He tries to stay the same forever, but he also tries never to write the same thing twice. And that is really what it all comes down to, if it comes down to anything at all. But if from the beginning you travel around with your writing like a trouser-salesman and also live off of it, you just end up doing something along those lines.
A typical writer, a typical German writer, thinks like that. He even says all that as well. He says that he lives like that and writes, and so on. Soandso is a licensed writer. Just like a pianist or an actor; they can carry all that home on their license. I can write at a tavern, I can write in a block of flats, I can write in Paris in the middle of traffic, it makes absolutely no difference. To begin with I need stimuli and some kind of chaotic incident or something like that.
Chaos is a great pacifier. For me anyway. And in the newspaper everything is obviously chaotic. Then he tried to climb some hill somewhere; unfortunately the leash got pulled over his head, the dog probably ran three paces ahead, and the boy was strangled. Right, so you imagine something afterwards. The strangled boy in relation to Troilus and Cressida; that might have worked. The main thing is for it to sound good. That pulls the reader along from the very beginning, the way a dog pulls along a lead.
And being able to separate yourself, radically, from your own stuff, so that you can see that this needs to be thrown out. The more you cut out the better it actually gets. And then it works out, the project does.
You think. And then an actor comes along, or whatever, and we do that, and then yet again it becomes something completely different. Of course after every project I fall to pieces. After the last play, because it was just such a project, I lay in bed for three weeks in a kind of boardinghouse and I was completely knackered. That happens with everybody. You learn that from your personal experience: that for a while you devour caviar and probably that comes to an end after three weeks, a sudden end, and then you eat blood sausage. For years.
But of course caviar always makes a comeback, even if for just a short time. But somehow, somewhere, the adventure comes to a close. When I was a child, there was a curtain, in front of a little broom cupboard, and I would stand inside it with my hand raised, and when my grandmother had just walked past I would let my hand fall out.
She was scared to death, every time! Then I have the time of my life. Otherwise of course everything would be horrible. If I humored everyone all the time, it would obviously be terrible. And so you have to construct something for yourself on your own; obviously nothing is coming in from outside. And those stories about nukes are all tedious, because they end in nothing.
And so you should wander off somewhere, with a satchel. Of course an illness is always a great blessing as well. My life is of course altogether clear-cut; I do my work; everything that impedes this work falls by the wayside, and whatever facilitates this work I am in favor of. Munich: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, , pp. The Legacy. Her shoes were soaked. The puddles were multiplying; her shoes kept splashing straight into the middle of them; with every step she trod into uncertainty, quite without forethought, yet sharply and forcefully.
A life? What life? The life of Theresa, the old schoolmistress with the gold-rimmed spectacles. The nice old lady with white hair… it had been springtime when she last set out from there and hiked across the burgeoning meadows, stooping all the while, her head cocked slightly to one side.
Rose heard her voice; she could sense her warm hand, her peculiar, spasmodic breathing…. All of them creaked the same way, had the same handrails, the same smell…. The walls reeked of putrefaction and apples, of dampness and pigs…. The three female figures were absolutely motionless. The fragrance of candles sat on their foreheads, as did the fragrance of flowers, of skin, the stench of sweat, pears, dust…. And then she seemed to be pondering the question for a few fractions of a second.
And her eyes were spellbound; they were like the eyes of a hunted animal that in the midst of the despair of a winter night suddenly beholds a flicker of light…. The old woman inside was lying as if in state, exactly as though she had already been dead for a few hours. A single candle illuminated her face. Somewhere on the wall Rose caught sight of a shadow…she held a finger up to her lips. Her breast emitted no cry, but merely a long drawn-out, hideous note. And then they went in. The person lying on the bed with stiff hands, an equally stiff head, and leering eyes, was no corpse.
The old woman stirred. A thousand-fold loneliness cowered in her eyes. She had taught hundreds of people how to read, write, and do sums. The old woman sat up. She made a hand gesture. Rose drew quite near to her. Rose nodded. Whereupon the old woman gently shook her head. She breathed as sparingly as she could, but time was melting away beneath her sweaty fingers.
Her chest seemed to be paralyzed. The world…Grab hold of it one more time and crush it in your hands…Now, quickly…but everything she clutched at turned to ashes. Her heart was beating right on up to the end, after seventy years. She had something else to say. She sank back on to the bedclothes.
The Thankables : Three Little Creatures with Very Large Features by Nayomi Thomas (2013, Paperback)
Rose wept without knowing that she was weeping. And then she laughed, and then she wept again. And Rose nodded. The two other women stepped back. They could hear the clock ticking, voices beneath the windows. A peculiar whispering…. Rose propped up her head, shoved the pillow under it. It smelled of medicine, of bodies and roses…. The three women waited; they waited, but they heard not a single further word from her mouth, which was now merging into her slowly and uncannily expiring face; that mouth that was now submitting to the statutes of this earth, like everything in this world that has a name, a description, a good will, or any meaning whatsoever.
A wondrous world was coming to an end with her, but a new, perhaps even more wondrous world was dawning.
May 20, 2017
The three women gazed unblinkingly at one another. They soundlessly took their first steps back into the new world; they listened out, they listened out and listened out into the distance, into some faraway place, but they heard no reply…not today, not tomorrow. Originally published in Demokratisches Volksblatt , February 21, In February , when the piscine days were just getting their tails in gear, I set off to traverse the ZIP-code on foot.
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Paul Street in April of I had proudly styled myself a resident of the Tri —ZIP-Code Area , comprising the postal districts of my home one , , and —since the dawn of the second decade of the millennium I had in point of fact been confining myself exclusively, at least in my non- bulot alimentaire -orientated hours, to the ZIP-code. As for the sole intervening ZIP-code, the ZIP-code, through which each of the just-mentioned bus routes passed in conveying me to and from the BA, why I knew it no better than a regular and steadfastly loyal Concorde-using s Pond-crosser would have known Tenerife or the Azores.
Six years ago at the most recent. The longer of the two so-called World Wars had lasted fewer than six years. Entire countries—nations, principalities, republics, even empires—had come into being, risen through the ranks to skipperdom of the Weltgeist , and collapsed into geopolitical nonentity in shorter spans of time.
Clearly such longstanding alienation from key sectors of my virtually immediate Umwelt had not done and was continuing not to do any good for either my mental or my fundamental hygiene. But Dr. One always has means of economizing ready to hand. Besides, I had already made up my mind that the aforementioned re-acquaintance with my virtually immediate Umwelt was just what the doctor should have ordered, that it on its own would suffice to put paid to my epipygial hyperkeratosis for good.
Only the vector of the re-acquaintance session needed to be determined. As it happened, I managed to set out at a. After shouldering my rucksack and stepping out on to the portico of the block of flats in which I resided and still reside , I headed up i. To my great and on the whole pleasant surprise, on reaching the intersection I found a friendly white Walk Man beaming steadily at me from the other or west side of St.
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I call the surprise experienced or undergone by me at that moment only pleasant on the whole because while the course of action invited by the presence of the Walk Man was less undesirable than the one that would have been invited by his absence i. To be sure, the invitation to cross St. Greenway Street, Avenue Lane, autc? This as against the mental calisthenics imposed on the would-be crosser of St. But not being as far as one knows immortal even in the safest circumstances and one would have to have only barely figuratively all the time in the world to effect such a piecemeal crossing more than twice in a blue moon , one immediately clutches at other expedients—at jaywalking the Greenway stretch and heeding only the signal covering the St.
Paul stretch, or even at provisionally scoping out both lanes of the St. But all of this meta-strategic palaver about the crossing of Greenway and St. For as I recently not only hinted but boldly stated albeit in slightly different—i. But that no more was still a great deal. Paul, like tens of thousands of his brethren at tens of thousands of intersection-corners all over the United States save perhaps New York City , was a brazen, shameless, flaming-pants-sporting liar. For during these episodes i.
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Paul and thereby either to block my way if my pedestrian trajectory had not yet intersected with their vehicular one, or to run me over if it had. Oh, I know that by law right-turning drivers are required to yield to pedestrians crossing at the invitation of a Walk Man or Walk Word-Signal incidentally, for what it is worth [i. Accepting Jesus as our Lord and Saviour will mark that peace and your name etched. Today help me celebrate the life of Paulina "Candita" Asencio Silvestre.
Mama' was The "Rock" of our family and a life long servant of the lord. I am convinced and happy that she is in a better place. We gained another spirit guide and angel watch. My sincere Condolences to you and family Eric. My God Bless you with peace, understaning, and strength during this time. Follow cherokeestown and get some stupid amazing new recipes to start your. So dankbaar vrienden en familie die samen komen om te feesten, te genieten, te lachen en blij te zijn. Houd altijd je huis open voor degene die dit nodig hebben en geef dank! Prepping, cooking and the parade.
Happy Thanksgiving!!! Praise the LORD! And ad i. A bruised reed he will not break and a smoldering wick He will not extinguish, till He leads justice to victory. Matthew overflowinggratitude thethankables warongrumbling atpeacewithgod. My Oasis today Start your day with God in prayer and constantly speak positive thoughts over your life. Be a light in dark places, be a blessing to others, pursue your purpose, conquer your fears, and keep negative thoughts to a minimum. You can do it!!!! I love th. I love my alone time.
Being loyal and thankful atpeacewithgod happiness. At peace with God. I knelt down to pray And when I peered up from my faithful call on Him, I saw this single weed, in all it'. Happy sabbath! Gotta thank you Bill hiscreatveness for the scripture suggestion. It is now saying exactly what is needed for today. Stay serene, stay peaceful. We don't notice this sometimes, but God's protection comes in the form of peace in the midst of the battles we face. As believers of Christ in this fallen world, remember that the Lord has promised to keep us safe in His mighty power.
Never let the. People struggle to share their success secrets because they can't risk someone having knowledge of it and succeeding better than them. But a secret that serves everyone, a secret available for anyone who wants access, a secret that works for everyone. Gosh I had a total epiphany this morning. Why would he let bad things happen to innocent children? God can not control bad people.
Just like he ca. On top of Rhigos mountain, what a beautiful evening. My next best place to be alone and think. Rip GMAL!!! Rest in paradise my friend and brotha mpd ripjamal atpeacewithgod. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy. Each time I'm heartbroken over loosing a loved one I am lifted. You know that feeling that's so deep you can hardly breath. You can't stop crying. Then one day it's better. They say time heals, but sometimes it's more than that. My grandmother literally came to me. I was dreaming I was in her hospital room and couldn't find her. My mom, dad, husband all outside the door.
I was screaming, banging on the door. They tied me to a bed. Yep crazy watch. My Granny was sat beside me and said, "I'm gone and no one can help you. I'm gone". There was a sign last week when my brother crossed over which is was very comforting. It's never easy to let go. It's sad how we often look to people and things to make us content when Christ, our main source, is waiting to satisfy our souls and meet all our emotional needs. Get in the habit of redirecting your expectations and putting your heart in the right place Christ is the only ONE that can truly satisfy and fill your love tank to the brim.
In Reconciliation the Justice Of God and his holiness is revealed. God does not condone sin but lays it all on Christ. The act of Jesus Christ on the cross provided a legal basis for the reconciliation of everybody, but you receive it by Faith in Christ Jesus by whom you were reconciled. Your Sin was fully punished In Christ upon Calvary. Nothing was left unpaid, everything was taken care of. Justice was Fully Satisfied. It is well with my soul And the peace of God which surpasses all understanding, shall keep your hearts, your minds through Christ Jesus.
I can stare at you all day and feel the beauty of God's creation. So many of our beautifulwomen have been directly or indirectly hurt by the careless acts of men. I am guilty of hurting my firstlove and teenage daughter's mom emotionally. She is in fact braver than me. I didn't go to Church; Anthony brought home Ashes to "anoint" me! Status: Calm mind. God harmony nature peacewithpeople atpeacewithGod shalom turntoGod beholy lovetheLord holyquotes repent salvation saved savedbygrace pray prayers.
Remembering my bigbrother. Today is his death anniversary. Great minds must think alike suchagreatfeeling suchacoolplacetobeinlife atpeacewithGod withlife andyourself positivequotes TRIPLEM morningblessings morningmotivation. It amazes me how my son wont leave my side After all this man said, did, rushed offstage, protested, a lawsuit, etc the nation still elects him.
I think everyone is waiting on my opinion, well let me have my say. This is the first time I voted for the presidency of the United States, I did not care about who would be president elect. But I do know that I love my country to death and no matter what happens, if any of you move to Canada or anywhere else on earth cause you think this man will become a world superpower, there is only one person more powerful than Donald Trump and that is our lord and savior Jesus Christ. As a republican I should be overjoyed but to be honest and at the upmost truth, I don't really care.
I am just going to let god guide him from there, I will keep an eye on President Elect Trump from his inauguration on January 20th to whenever he steps down, reelected or not. So whoever was against this man or thought I voted for him or wants to leave this country, keep your president elect, I'm staying here and I will too.