Saturday, 29 September 2012


Thursday, 27 September 2012

Tuesday, 25 September 2012

For years we lived anyhow with one another in the naked desert, under the indifferent heaven. By day the hot sun fermented us; and we were dizzied by the beating wind. At night we were stained by dew, and shamed into pettiness by the innumerable silences of the stars. We were a self-centered army without parade or gesture, devoted to freedom, the second of man's creeds, a purpose so ravenous that it devoured all our strength, a hope so transcendent that our earlier ambitions faded in its glare.

As time went by our need to fight for the ideal increased to an unquestioning possession, riding with spur and rein over our doubts. Willy-nilly it became a faith. We had sold ourselves into its slavery, manacled ourselves together in its chain-gang, bowed ourselves to serve its holiness with all our good and ill content. The mentality of ordinary human slaves is terrible - they have lost the world and we had surrendered, not body alone, but soul to the over mastering greed of victory. By our own act we were drained of morality, of volition, of responsibility, like dead leaves in the wind.

Wednesday, 19 September 2012

'Walks', @ London Art Book Fair, Whitechapel Gallery, 21st-23rd Sept.

Wednesday, 12 September 2012

It is this vertigo of meaning that draws people obsessively to the movie's locations. Like the stereotypical detective who is haunted by the one crime he couldn't solve, so we are haunted by a multiplicity of possible meanings. But we can go there, walk the streets that they walked, follow directions to places that don't exist, be within the echo of a shared memory. Being in San Francisco, standing in an alleyway or outside of an apartment, doesn't give one a definitive meaning, but it brings an uncanny and visceral feeling of the vertiginous quality of time, and a sense of getting closer to the object of desire only to realise that how it appeared to be isn't how it is in reality. The raw experience of meaning and truth and desire and time and memory - all in one specific place - will always engender a feeling of vertigo.
(Siobhan McKeown, Mapping Obsesson: A Personal Vertigo Pilgrimage)

Monday, 10 September 2012

Friday, 7 September 2012

Thus, every self-portrait (unlike autobiography which even when it resorts to a myth such as that of the four ages, is limited to an individual’s memory and to the places where he lived) ceases to be essentially individual except, of course, in a purely anecdotal sense. The writing machine, the system of places, the figures used – everything in it tends towards generalization, whereas the intra-textual memory, that is, the system of cross-references, amplifications, and palinodes that supplants a memory turned towards ‘remembrance,’ produces the mimesis of another type of anamnesis, which might be called metempsychosis; it is, at any rate, a type of archaic and also very modern memory through which the events of an individual life are eclipsed by the recollection of an entire culture, thus causing a paradoxical self-forgetfulness.
M.B Poetics of the Literary Self-Portrait

Tuesday, 4 September 2012

His home did not offer many diversions, and as he almost never went out, he early became accustomed to occupy himself alone and with his own thoughts. His father was a very severe man, apparently dry and prosaic, but under this rough coat he concealed a glowing imagination which even old age could not quench. When Johannes occasionally asked permission to go out, he generally refused to give it, though once in a while he proposed instead that Johannes should take his hand and walk back and forth in the room. At first glance this might seem a poor substitute, and yet, as in the case of the rough coat, there was something totally different concealed under it. The proposition was accepted, and it was left entirely to Johannes to determine where they should go. So they went out of doors to a nearby castle in Spain, or out to the seashore, or about the streets, wherever Johannes wished to go, for the father was equal to anything. While they walked back and forth in the room the father described everything they saw; they greeted passers-by, carriages rattles past them and droned the father's voice; the cake-woman's goodies were more enticing than ever. The father described so accurately, so vividly, so explicitly even to the least details that was known to Johannes, and described so fully and perspicuously what was unknown to him, that after half an hour of such a walk with his father he was as much overwhelmed and fatigued as if he had been a whole day out of doors. Johannes soon learnt from his father how to exercise this magic power. What first had been an epic now became a drama; they conversed in turn. If they were walking along well known paths they watched one another sharply to make sure that nothing was overlooked; if the way was strange to Johannes, he invented something, whereas the father's almighty imagination was capable of shaping everything, of using every childish whim as an ingredient of the drama which was being enacted. To Johannes it seemed as if the world were coming into existence during the conversation.

That day, the signs which lessened my discouragement and restored my faith in writing seemed to multiply around me. If memory, thanks to the act of forgetting offers to bridge from itself to the present, it allows us to breathe a new air. New, because we've breathed it before. Poets tried vainly to situate this air in paradise, but true paradises are those we have lost. This meant that my fear of my own death stopped as soon as I recalled the taste of the madeleine.

Fig .1, Lawrence rides into the Desert.
Fig .2, Lawrence rides into the Desert.

The image captivates us.... (L.W)