Monthly Archives: December 2015

The process of association

Once I went to a lavish dinner party given by a most particular and most obstinate lady. The maid forgot to serve the beans and my most particular dear friend, rapt in a recollection of her youth that lasted seven courses, overlooked them. I did not nor did the other guests. We were furtive, catching eyes, but we were careful. Was it asparagus or broccoli or brussels sprouts or beans? Was she covering up the maid’s mistake like the coolest actress, as if to make the tipped table and the broken vase a part of every evening’s business? She enjoyed the glory of the long hours of her beauty. The final fork of cake was in her mouth when her jaws snapped. I would have given any sum, then, performed any knavery, to know what it was that led her from gay love and light you to French-cut green beans and the irrevocable breach of order. She had just said: “We were dancing. I was wearing my most daring gown and I was cold.” She went on a word or two before turning grim and silent. By what Proustian process was the thing accomplished? I suppose it was something matter-of-fact. She shivered — and there in her mind were the missing beans. She rose at once and served them herself, cold, in silver, before the coffee. The hollandaise had doubtless separated so we were spared that. But only that. We ate those beans without a word, though some of us were, on most occasions, loquacious, outspoken, ragging types. Our hostess neglected her own portion and rushed sternly back to glory. Of her sins that evening I never forgave the last.

William Gass, In The Heart of The Heart of The Country

    (from here) 

 

Comments Off on The process of association

Filed under story

The smell of pride

I remember on the eve of my thirteenth birthday, I overheard my aunts talking to Father  about young girls and the dangerous age. “But she isn’t going to be one of them”, I heard Father say firmly. I was filled with pride which smells like rubies.

Anne Carson, Plainwater, 

Comments Off on The smell of pride

Filed under memories

Laugh like frightened crystal

Thus they flee: [the four children]:Ames, Nancy, Toll and Tim. They pick the flowers next door to me, They tramp the garden down the street. They run through Mr Wallace’s hedge, and while Mr. Wallace bellows like a burnt blind Polyphemus, they laugh like frightened crystl.

William Gass, In the Heart of The Heart of the Country

Comments Off on Laugh like frightened crystal

Filed under Uncategorized

The soul

How deep it goes , this soul,

like a child in a department store,

seeking its mother —

Louise Gluck, Faithful and Virtuous Night

Comments Off on The soul

Filed under Uncategorized

The search for the answer

There’s a theory, one I find persuasive, that the quest for knowledge is, at bottom, the search for the answer to the question: “Where was I before I was born.” In the beginning was . . . what? Perhaps, in the beginning, there was a curious room, a room like this one, crammed with wonders; and now the room and all it contains are forbidden you, although it was made just for you, had been prepared for you since time began, and you will spend all your life trying to remember it.

Angela Carter (1940 – 1992)

Comments Off on The search for the answer

Filed under the unknown

Literary truth

“Literary truth is much harder than that of the historian. It’s not based on fact-finding, on the research of documents, but on the audacity, recklessness, and effrontery of the person doing the telling … Fiction must express truths that are otherwise unspeakable. And it needs a tone that testifies with every word that invention is entirely unrelated to falsehood.”

“Literary truth is much harder than that of the historian. It’s not based on fact-finding, on the research of documents, but on the audacity, recklessness, and effrontery of the person doing the telling … Fiction must express truths that are otherwise unspeakable. And it needs a tone that testifies with every word that invention is entirely unrelated to falsehood.”

Jennifer Levasseur, Elena Ferrante: The mysterious Italian writer talks about her acclaimed novels The Age December 19, 2015

Comments Off on Literary truth

Filed under the writing process

Stories not spoken

Few of the stories one has it in one’s self to speak get spoken, because the heart rarely confesses to intelligence its deeper needs: and few of the stories one has at the top of one’s head to tell get told, because the mind does not always possess the voice for them. Even when the voice is there, and the tongue is limber as if with liquor or with love, where is that sensitive, admiring, other pair of ears?

Preface to In The Heart of the Heart of The Country, William Gass

Comments Off on Stories not spoken

Filed under story

The blue rocks

f4bd73_7db15a7927914d4987fe59cbacbb3566

Sarah Tomasetti, Heather Hesterman, (from here)

© 2015 PERADAM PROJECTS

Comments Off on The blue rocks

Filed under Uncategorized

The purple door

door close

© Clara Brack, The Purple Door,2015

Comments Off on The purple door

Filed under Uncategorized

Indoor Ivy

indoor ivy

Clara Brack, Indoor Ivy,

‘ . . . . until his ceiling hung with vines

and the walls became the world all around . . ‘

(Maurice Sendak, Where The Wild Things Are)

Comments Off on Indoor Ivy

Filed under Uncategorized