Death certificate, 1923, from New Brunswick, Canada

10:15 pm  3,358 notes

Death certificate, 1923, from New Brunswick, Canada

(via pocket-full-of-stones)

Just inquisitive whether you have an inherent propensity for perennially sad, depressed people?
by Anonymous


5:44 pm  12 notes

If words could hold this world / they would bend themselves to one transparency.

3:49 pm  13 notes

give me poison for death or dreams for life
asceticm shall soon come to an end in the / gates of the moon which the sun
has already blessed / and although unbetrothed to reality the dreams
of the dead man shall stop mourning his fate

father I will to your heaven my eye as / a blue drop in the sea
the black world bends itself no more for alms / and psalms
but thousand year old winds comb the loose / hair / of the trees
wells slake the invisible wanderer’s thirst
four directions stand empty around the bier
and the muslin of the angels is changed
by a magic wand
to nothing

Gunnar Ekelöf, “Apothesis”

11:12 pm  94 notes

"Because ‘the I’ is the miracle of ‘the You’, because the self depends upon the stranger, who is always an other. For are we not strangers to ourselves, do we not, in the deepest reaches of our unconscious, harbor unrecognizable selves?"

Richard Stamelman, “The Graven Silence of Writing,” From the Book to the Book: An Edmond Jabès Reader

3:17 pm  39 notes

“Hope: the following page. Do not close the book.”

“I have turned all the pages of the book without finding hope.”

“Perhaps hope is the book.”

— Edmond Jabès, Return to the Book

12:01 pm  32 notes

"A poem is a manifestation of an invisible poem that exists beyond the conventional languages. Therefore, a translation of a poem into a new language is an opportunity to attempt to realize the original (invisible) poem."

— Tomas Tranströmer

"Translation is an art of analogy, the art of finding correspondences. An art of shadows and echoes. Baudelaire said poetry is essentially analogy. The idea of universal correspondence comes from the idea that language is a microcosmos, a double of the universe. Between the language of the universe and the universe of language, there is a bridge, a link: poetry. The poet, says Baudelaire, is the translator."

— Octavio Paz

11:42 am  60 notes

Don’t ask who you are or who I am
and why what is, is.
Let the professors sort it out,
it’s their job.
Place the scale on the kitchen table
and let reality weigh itself.
Put your coat on.
Turn the light off in the hallway.
Close the door.
Let the dead embalm the dead.

Here we walk now.
The one wearing white rubber boots
is you.
The one wearing black rubber boots
is me.
And the rain falling on both of us
is the rain.

— Werner Aspenström, ”You and I and the World”

11:27 am  32 notes

Notes on Unfinished Poems

The unearthed fragments of this fragment.


This, a sort of quotation.


You were turned slightly toward the century.


When silence lies in wait for the world.


In the language of the other.


Paul Celan was obsessed with hair.


Memories, dreams, even worlds—face a separate sphere.


The space of Time is sound.


You understand: there is no time, no sound.


Not recollections but hallucinations.


These frozen silent figures, over which I wept.


To end with all the signs.

2:54 pm  12 notes

[The world after the end of the world]

In reality the sky isn’t far from or near the land.

In reality death isn’t far from or close to life.

We are always before the river of Heraclitus.

1:59 pm  20 notes

“Every event, and consequently every action that takes place at a point of time, is necessary under the condition of what was in the preceding time. Now, since time past is no longer within my control, every action that I perform must be necessary by determining grounds that are not within my control, that is, I am never free at the point of time in which I act.”

— Immanuel Kant, quoted in Ethics Vindicated: Kant’s Transcendental Legitimation of Moral Discourse

10:33 am  69 notes

“Where am I to find you? If I find you beyond my memory, it means that I have no memory of you. How, then, am I to find you, if I have no memory of you?”

10:26 am  38 notes

“In order to understand, it is immensely important for the person who understands to be located outside the object of his or her creative understanding—in time, in space, in culture. For one cannot even really see one’s own exterior and comprehend it as a whole, and no mirrors or photographs can help; our real exterior can be seen and understood only by other people, because they are located outside us in space, and because they are others.”

— Mikhail Bakhtin, Speech Genres and Other Late Essays

10:17 am  66 notes


At night I dream of remembering the poem — every poem written, every poem lying in wait, the unwritten ones asleep. I am the dreamer, and I recite its lines, each careful syllable and meter. The line breaks are windows through which the whole of language is illuminated. At times I almost / dream. It seems a kind of hypnagogia, the words come from a place outside the poem and me. Dim memories, as now. A language outside of language, or a window without the window. The heavier sleep comes the more dismantled. Synesthetic images of sound more than sight, every line obscured so to become illumined. When once more seems the goal in sight again. To go inside the poem, no longer dreamer or the dream, no longer writing or written, but then a room comes into view, disfiguring the semantic field. The moment of waking is a moment of loss, losing not only this poem but every poem, the only poem, the dream.

12:12 pm  17 notes

“The novel is the very opposite of the book. While the novelist exercises control over the writing, while he or she turns the space of the text into the space of the story to be retold, the writer of the book allows the writing to dominate. The book “recounts” or, more precisely, activates not a story but the movement of writing. The novelist masters his or her writing in order to put it at the service of the characters. By imposing on the novel a word that is manifestly exterior to the writing, the novelist assassinates the book. Ignorant of the rhythm and respiration punctuating the book’s circular and enigmatic writing, the novelist is word-deaf. He or she does not know, as does the writer of the book, how to listen to the page and to the reverberations of its whiteness and silence. The true writer, who is not a creator but a listener, is sensitive to the book’s orality, to its freedom as uninterrupted language, to the void and silence that hide within it, to its rejection of closure, and, above all, to the invisible, forgotten, absent, always virtual book it shelters.”

Richard Stamelman, “The Graven Silence of Writing,” From the Book to the Book: An Edmond Jabès Reader

6:52 pm  31 notes