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Thursday, November 19, 2015

Glenn Gould


Paying tribute today to the late and great Glenn Gould, whom I admire for many reasons, not least of all his tremendous raw talent, perspicacious wit and unapologetic eccentricity, and of course - his hair.  
"It is in a short music which observes neither end nor beginning, music with neither real climax nor real resolution … It has, then, unity through intuitive perception, unity born of craft and scrutiny, mellowed by mastery achieved, and revealed to us here, as so rarely in art, in the vision of subconscious design exulting upon a pinnacle of potency."
– Glenn Gould, on Bach's Goldberg Variations  (1955)
Excerpts from "Advice to a Graduation," in which Gould articulates his fascinating vision of "a vast background of immense possibility, of negation … the source from which all creative ideas come." Delivered at the Royal Conservatory of Music, University of Toronto, November 1964. 
When people who practice an art like music become captives of those positive assumptions of system, when they forget to credit that happening against negation which system is, and when they become disrespectful of the immensity of negation compared to system – then they put themselves out of reach of that replenishment of invention upon which creative ideas depend, because invention is, in fact, a cautious dipping into the negation that lies outside system from a position firmly ensconced in system. I do not, for one moment, suggest that you minimize the importance of dogmatic theory. I do not suggest, either, that you extend your investigative powers to such purpose that you compromise your own comforting faith in the systems by which you have been taught and to which you remain responsive. But I do suggest that you take care to recall often that the systems by which we organize our thinking, and in which we attempt to pass on that thinking to the generations that follow, represent what you might think of as a foreground of activity – of positive, convinced, self-reliant action – and that this foreground can have validity only insofar as it attempts to impose credibility on that vast background acreage of human possibility that has not yet been organized.
This solitude that you can acquire and should cultivate, this opportunity for contemplation of which you should take advantage, will be useful to you only insofar as you can substitute for those questions posed by the student for the teacher, questions posed by yourself for yourself. You must try to discover how high your tolerance is for the questions you ask of yourself. You must try to recognize that point beyond which the creative exploration – questions that extend your vision of your world – extends beyond the point of tolerance and paralyses the imagination by confronting it with too much possibility, too much speculative opportunity. To keep the practical issues of systematized thought and the speculative opportunities of the creative instinct in balance will be the most difficult and most important undertaking of your lives in music.
...so long as you remain deeply involved with the processes of your own imagination – not as alternative to what seems to be the reality of outward observation, not even as supplement to positive action and acquisition, because that's not the way in which the imagination can serve you best. What it can do is to serve as a sort of no man's land between that foreground of system and dogma, of positive action, for which you have been trained, and that vast background of immense possibility, of negation, which you must constantly examine, and to which you must never forget to pay homage as the source from which all creative ideas come.

Sunday, October 25, 2015

Love After Love

The time will come 
when, with elation 
you will greet yourself arriving 
at your own door, in your own mirror 
and each will smile at the other's welcome, 

and say, sit here. Eat. 
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart 
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you 

all your life, whom you ignored 
for another, who knows you by heart. 
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, 

the photographs, the desperate notes, 
peel your own image from the mirror. 
Sit. Feast on your life. 

- Derek Walcott

Tuesday, September 8, 2015

John Ashbery in the Paris Review:

 Susan Sontag was at this writers' conference also—there were just four of us—and one night in Warsaw we were provided with tickets to a ballet. I said, “Do you think we should go? It doesn't sound like it will be too interesting.” And she said, “Sure, we should go. If it is boring that will be interesting too” —which turned out to be the case. But it doesn't really matter so much what the individual thing is. Many times I will jot down ideas and phrases, and then when I am ready to write I can't find them. But it doesn't make any difference, because whatever comes along at that time will have the same quality. Whatever was there is replaceable. In fact, often in revising I will remove the idea that was the original stimulus. I think I am more interested in the movement among ideas than in the ideas themselves, the way one goes from one point to another rather than the destination or the origin. The pathos and liveliness of ordinary human communication is poetry to me.

Monday, December 15, 2014

Sunday, November 23, 2014

El Mar

Necesito del mar porque me enseña:
no sé si aprendo música o conciencia:
no sé si es ola sola o ser profundo
o sólo ronca voz o deslumbrante
suposición de peces y navios.
El hecho es que hasta cuando estoy dormido
de algún modo magnético circulo
en la universidad del oleaje.
No son sólo las conchas trituradas
como si algún planeta tembloroso
participara paulatina muerte,
no, del fragmento reconstruyo el día,
de una racha de sal la estalactita
y de una cucharada el dios inmenso.

Lo que antes me enseñó lo guardo! Es aire,
incesante viento, agua y arena.

Parece poco para el hombre joven
que aquí llegó a vivir con sus incendios,
y sin embargo el pulso que subía
y bajaba a su abismo,
el frío del azul que crepitaba,
el desmoronamiento de la estrella,
el tierno desplegarse de la ola
despilfarrando nieve con la espuma,
el poder quieto, allí, determinado
como un trono de piedra en lo profundo,
substituyó el recinto en que crecían
tristeza terca, amontonando olvido,
y cambió bruscamente mi existencia:
di mi adhesión al puro movimiento.

phrases we like: a compendium

i was reading something recently - an interview with john ashbery, i believe - in which he said that the construction of sentences is one of the most profound and exquisite acts that humans perform. i agree. a beautiful sentence or turn of phrase is such a treasure - something to marvel at, turn slowly over in your mind, test out on your tongue, let free to flutter around in the air … and lately i've come across several that i've enjoyed so i am beginning to compile them here.

Her caves ghosted by foxes.  - from Pierced Darkness, by Adrienne Rich

He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. he did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.  

- from The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald (from whence the title of rich's book "dark fields of the republic")

Forward, forward let us range, let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.

- from Locksley Hall, Alfred Lord Tennyson (also from whence the title of Colm McCann's book "let the great world spin")


and one that's been here before, but i'll excerpt it again:


edge light from the high desert where shadows drip from tiniest stones

sunklight of bloody afterglow
torque of the joshua tree flinging itself forth in winter
factoring freeze into its liquid consciousness
these are the extremes i stoke
into the updraft of this life
still roaring
into thinnest air

- from Inscriptions, adrienne rich

For a long time afterward, the world grew chipper, 

offering samples of itself to every comer. That’s why I was so late. It takes a long time to choose when you’re not ready. Even longer when you are. You know this better than anyone, myself included.

- from Wulf, by John Ashbery

There's no way to be in good faith on this island anymore. You have to crush so many things with your mind vise just to get through the day. 


- from Find Your Beach, by Zadie Smith 

On the way to take a plane early one icy spring morning I spotted him on the airport road. He was making his determined way towards town, his breath smoking and a drop at the end of his poor old battered nose glinting like a fresh-cut jewel in the pink-tinged, frosty sunlight.  


- from Ancient Light, by John Banville 

Everything that rises must converge - flannery o'connor

all that is solid melts into air, all that is holy is profaned, and man is at last compelled to face with sober senses his real conditions of his life, and his relations with his kind

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

another one i like, courtesy of my dad

Old Globe

For her big birthday
we gave her (nothing less would do)
the world, which is to say

a globe copyrighted the very year
she was born -- ninety years before.
She held it tenderly, and it was clear

both had come such a long way:
the lovely, dwindled, ever-eager-to-please
woman whose memory had begun to fray

and a planet drawn and redrawn through
endless shifts of aims and loyalties,
and war and war.

Her eye fell at random. "Formosa," she read.
"Now that's pretty. Is it there today?"
A pause. "It is," my brother said,"

though now it's called Taiwan."
She looked apolgetic. 'I sometimes forget . . ."
"Like Sri Lanka," I added. "Which was Ceylon."

And so my brothers and I, globe at hand, began:
which places had seen a change of name
in the last ninety years? Burma, Baluchistan,

Czechoslovakia, Abyssinia, Transjordan, Tibet.
Because she laughed, we extended our game
into history, mist: Vineland, Persia, Cathay . . .

She was in a middle place --
her fifties -- when photos were first transmitted,
miraculously, from outer space.

Who could believe those men -- in their black noon --
got up like robots, wandering the wild
wastelands of the moon,

and overhead a wholly naked sun
and an Earth so far away
it was less real than this one,

the gift received today --
the globe she'd so tenderly fitted
under her arm, like a child.

Finally, there's cake; nine candles in a ring.
. . . Just so, the past turns distant past,
each rich decade diminishing

to a little stick of wax, rapidly
expiring. I say, "Now make a wish before
you blow them out." She says, "I don't see --"

stops. Then mildly protests: "But they look so nice."
We laugh at her -- and wince when a look of doubt
or fear clouds her face; she needs advice.

Well -- what should anyone wish for
in blowing candles out
but that the light might last?

- Brad Leithauser
from The Unassailable

IV

Space is full of mental rooms where we can go
Like a hunter unleashing his dogs, I freed my spirit into them
High blaze of hieratic grasses
Simple or resounding victory
Although it wasn’t an especially simple day
All day long the sun suffused some leaves
Nearby harvesters bent in the vineyards
Mindful of patient provisions in the grapes’ blood
To each one his wine-press and his wine
As for me, I unleashed my dogs
First of all death deciphered itself in the gold
Its obols waited at the foot of every tree
Weightless coins of the glad munificence
Which replaces summer
Glory piercing loss through to its afterlife
To each his crystal and to each his blood
To each his drunkenness
And his journey just a bit beyond himself
I too was heavy
I too, clumsy in the evening’s affluence
My wealth was too great for me
A beautiful sunset thickening my lips
Like a hunter heading home
I whistled for my spirit

- Gabrielle Althen, translated by Marilyn Hacker