It is feb. 13, and I expect I have to write this because I can type less and less well, and want to do an update on my blog, which rarely I write - swamped like everyone, and seeing out over it less and less well -- to say, quite simple, just that. Thinking of the ironies of everything -- how fortunate we all are who are still living in such relative ease (we are, after all, alive) -- and how from very littledom, I used to wonder over the dreadfulness of singers losing their voices after a certain age, ballerinas losing their step even earlier, thinkers growing dull of mind, and all that -- now I find this sort of funny.
Last week, I held up my left (thanks be, my LEFT hand) hand to my daughter Hilary and said: look how my two little fingers are curling over. Typing is more worrisome: I was always chaotic, and my typing and writing even more apparent than my uneven stacking of books on every free surface. But there is much I want to write and may not get to it, which is, of course, always the case for every single person I know, or just about.
Many strange things occur and you think: ah, I must write this down so as not to lose it. Like Virginia Woolf saying write it down, or like water, it flows away. (Surely, she said it a whole lot better, but nowadays I just have to SAY IT.)
Teaching: I love sitting around with a group and all talking about what we have just discovered or rediscovered. I loved my seminar on Anxieties of Modernist Representation last semester, and my Energetic Aesthetics this semester and will be delving into the kinds of Modernist processes we might examine next semester.
And my friend Marjorie Perloff is coming to speak for the Henri Peyre French Institute on March 19 on Paul Celan, and I leave the next day to do a Night Museum
What mostly is useful to write? not book reviews, I think, and probably not articles. As for books, I still long to write about my grandmother, whose grandmother kept slaves, who was herself a super painter and being and my agent says perhaps if it turns also into a memoir -- but there is such a discrepancy between her looming talent and energy and communicative personality and whatever I muster, forget the curling fingers anyway. Maybe. And so much else I long to do and write and be and love.
Last week, I held up my left (thanks be, my LEFT hand) hand to my daughter Hilary and said: look how my two little fingers are curling over. Typing is more worrisome: I was always chaotic, and my typing and writing even more apparent than my uneven stacking of books on every free surface. But there is much I want to write and may not get to it, which is, of course, always the case for every single person I know, or just about.
Many strange things occur and you think: ah, I must write this down so as not to lose it. Like Virginia Woolf saying write it down, or like water, it flows away. (Surely, she said it a whole lot better, but nowadays I just have to SAY IT.)
Teaching: I love sitting around with a group and all talking about what we have just discovered or rediscovered. I loved my seminar on Anxieties of Modernist Representation last semester, and my Energetic Aesthetics this semester and will be delving into the kinds of Modernist processes we might examine next semester.
And my friend Marjorie Perloff is coming to speak for the Henri Peyre French Institute on March 19 on Paul Celan, and I leave the next day to do a Night Museum
What mostly is useful to write? not book reviews, I think, and probably not articles. As for books, I still long to write about my grandmother, whose grandmother kept slaves, who was herself a super painter and being and my agent says perhaps if it turns also into a memoir -- but there is such a discrepancy between her looming talent and energy and communicative personality and whatever I muster, forget the curling fingers anyway. Maybe. And so much else I long to do and write and be and love.
1 comment:
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la sans doute sommeille l'espoir: j'avais perdu sa trace joyeuse lors du VAG de votre amie. Oui. L\or du temps s'accomode mal des murs du silence. Une lourde maladie de quelques annees. Le torrent distribute ses pepites. Mais si vous vous trouvez en Provence a Sorgues, chez Char, sachez que j'ai garde la copie d'une lettre que je lui envoyais en 1977. Tous les retours sont permis. J'espere que vous vous porterez mieux bientot. C'est la mon souhait. Dans la distance, Guy-vous-savez.
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