Maggie Nelson, Bluets
For Mallarmé the perfect book is one whose pages have not been cut, their mystery forever preserved, like a folded bird’s wing, or a fan never opened [via].
Category Archives: Phantom books
Painting the Impossibility of Painting
Bram Van Velde, Conversations with Samuel Beckett and Bram Van Velde by Charles Juliet
I paint the impossibility of painting [via].
Book of Blank Maps
Book of Blank Maps With Instructions
The Only Problem is I Haven’t Done the Work
John Tottenham
If I killed myself it would completely validate the work. The only problem is I haven’t done the work [via].
The Translation of a Text Already Within Us
Anna Kamienska, “In that Great River: A Notebook,” Poetry Foundation
I like Simone Weil’s idea that writing is actually the translation of a text we already carry within us.
[See Dylan Nice (via Gary Lutz)’s idea of “a text beyond the writer to which the writer submits”.]
The Book Next to It
Roberto Calasso, “The Art of Fiction 217,” The Paris Review 202, Fall 2012
When looking for a book, you may discover that you were in fact looking for the book next to it.
The Book You Get
James Baldwin, “The Art of Fiction No 78,” The Paris Review 91 Spring 1984
You never get the book you wanted, you settle for the book you get.
A Clean and Unmarked Sheet of Whatman Paper
Georges Perec, Life A User’s Manual
As each puzzle was finished, the seascape would be “retexturised” so that it could be removed from its backing, returned to the place where it had been painted — twenty years before — and dipped in a detergent solution whence would emerge a clean and unmarked sheet of Whatman paper. Thus, no trace would remain of an operation which would have been, throughout a period of fifty years, the sole motivation and unique activity of its author.
To Remember That We Miss It
Yves Bonnefoy, “The Art of Poetry No 69,” interview by Shusha Guppy, The Paris Review 131 Summer 1994
[T]here is nothing before language, for there is no consciousness, and therefore no world, without a system of signs. In fact, it is the speaking-being that has created this universe, even if language excludes him from it. This means that we are deprived through words of an authentic intimacy with what we are, or with what the Other is. We need poetry, not to regain this intimacy, which is impossible, but to remember that we miss it and to prove to ourselves the value of those moments when we are able to encounter other people, or trees, or anything, beyond words, in silence. [via]
Records of Disappearances
Chris Rose, “Marie Levallois,” The Biographical Dictionary of Literary Failure 27 March 2013
All writing has loss at its heart; all books are records of disappearances.
ANDREW GALLIX 