So

V says, there is the safe choice, the right choice, the right choice for all time. This wouldn't be the safe choice. Not just probably not the right choice for all time; more likely the absolutely wrong choice. Which leaves us with?

Reading lists

Googling, I find Clifton Fadiman's reading lists - by type and with Eastern works too.

Reading Guy Davenport, 2

In moments of sweet clarity, said Hugo, I doubt if we can communicate at all. You mean one thing, I hear another, benignly in banter, violently in an argument. But, said Mariana, we've never had an argument. Of course not, Hugo said, and don't intend to. I mean that human beings probably can't make each other understand what they mean. We have to get our meaning from art, from writing. That's awful, Mariana said.

The Bicycle Rider

Reading Guy Davenport

Archaic Torso of Apollo

Even though we can never see the head that sang, with its deer's eyes staring at infinity, we have the strong torso from whose animal grace we can imagine the hot summer clarity of its gaze. If the gone head is still not there, in light, why then does the proud chest disturb your looking, or the sweet shift of the hips, slight as a smile, that takes our eyes down the cunning body, to its cluster of seeds? Otherwise this stone would stand senseless under the polished slope of its shoulders, without its wild balance, and would not be as rich with light as the sky with stars. The world sees you, too. You must change your life.

The Jules Verne Steam Balloon

Words, falling

From Swiss Miss

No thought you've thunk before

Something I came across at the Marginal Revolution blog:

Sometime in the next week - January 1st if you have that available, or maybe January 3rd or 4th if the weekend is more convenient - I suggest you hold a New Day, where you don't do anything old.

Don't read any book you've read before. Don't read any author you've read before. Don't visit any website you've visited before. Don't play any game you've played before. Don't listen to familiar music that you already know you'll like. If you go on a walk, walk along a new path even if you have to drive to a different part of the city for your walk. Don't go to any restaurant you've been to before, order a dish that you haven't had before. Talk to new people (even if you have to find them in an IRC channel) about something you don't spend much time discussing.

And most of all, if you become aware of yourself musing on any thought you've thunk before, then muse on something else. Rehearse no old grievances, replay no old fantasies.

Happy New Year everyone!

New Year Resolution?

Via Vaughn

Words from a Totem Animal

Distance
is where we were
but empty of us and ahead of
me lying out in the rushes thinking
even the nights cannot come back to their hill
any time

I would rather the wind came from outside
from mountains anywhere
from the stars from other
worlds even as
cold as it is this
ghost of mine passing
through me

I know your silence
and the repetition
like that of a word in the ear of death
teaching
itself
itself
that is the sound of my running
the plea
plea that it makes
which you will never hear
oh god of beginnings
immortal

I might have been right
not who I am
but all right
among the walls among the reasons
not even waiting
not seen
but now I am out in my feet
and they on their way
the old trees jump up again and again
strangers
there are no names for the rivers
for the days for the nights
I am who I am
oh lord cold as the thoughts of birds
and everyone can see me

Caught again and held again
again I am not a blessing
they bring me
names
that would fit anything
they bring them to me
they bring me hopes
all day I turn
making ropes
helping

My eyes are waiting for me
in the dusk
they are still closed
they have been waiting a long time
and I am feeling my way toward them

I am going up stream
taking to the water from time to time
my marks dry off the stones before morning
the dark surface
strokes the night
above its way
There are no stars
there is no grief
I will never arrive
I stumble when I remember how it was
with one foot
one foot still in a name

I can turn myself toward the other joys and their lights
but not find them
I can put my words into the mouths
of spirits
but they will not say them
I can run all night and win
and win

Dead leaves crushed grasses fallen limbs
the world is full of prayers
arrived at from
afterwards
a voice full of breaking
heard from afterwards
through all
the length of the night

I am never all of me
unto myself
and sometimes I go slowly
knowing that a sound one sound
is following me from world
to world
and that I die each time
before it reaches me

When I stop I am alone
at night sometimes it is almost good
as though I were almost there
sometimes then I see there is
in a bush beside me the same question
why are you
on this way
I said I will ask the stars
why are you falling and they answered
which of us

I dreamed I had no nails
no hair
I had lost one of the senses
not sure which
the soles peeled from my feet and
drifted away
clouds
It's all one
feet
stay mine
hold the world lightly

Stars even you
have been used
but not you
silence
blessing
calling me when I am lost

Maybe I will come
to where I am one
and find
I have been waiting there
as a new
year finds the song of the nuthatch

Send me out into another life
lord because this one is growing faint
I do not think it goes all the way

- W. S. Merwin

repulsive theory

by Kay Ryan

Little has been made
of the soft, skirting action
of magnets reversed,
while much has been
made of attraction.
But is it not this pillowy
principle of repulsion
that produces the
doily edges of oceans
or the arabesques of thought?
And do these cutout coasts
and incurved rhetorical beaches
not baffle the onslaught
of the sea or objectionable people
and give private life
what small protection it's got?
Praise then the oiled motions
of avoidance, the pearly
convolutions of all that
slides off or takes a
wide berth; praise every
eddying vacancy of Earth,
all the dimpled depths
of pooling space, the whole
swirl set up by fending-off —
extending far beyond the personal,
I'm convinced —
immense and good
in a cosmological sense:
unpressing us against
each other, lending
the necessary never
to never-ending.

Not that I could tell quantum teleportation from the other kind

From Chris Moriarty's SF blog:

"I cannot count the number of recent SF novels I've read in which writers got quantum teleportation wrong. And I don't mean sort of wrong. I mean totally, unmistakably, irredeemably, inexcusably, unfudgeably wrong. The kind of wrong that no amount of goodwill or benefit of the doubt can help a writer out of. The kind of wrong that once caused a college friend of mine to get a mathematics exam handed back to him with the following sentence written on it in lieu of a grade: How did you become so terribly lost?"

mm

The Moon on the Crest of New-Fallen Snow

Pain

Has its place—and pity, too—but it is not here.
Here all is calm and cold and luminous.
The snow has smoothed over the tracks of the deer.

- Thomas Disch

How To Pack Books (When Moving After 18 Years)

What my sister and I pack, in order of importance:
1. Books we have read and remember fondly;
2. Books we read in childhood;
3. Books we remember seeing on the shelves for so long a time we might as well have read them;
4. Books we might read some day, maybe;
5. Books that would be cool to keep - history, philosophy, poetry, novels by authors who seem vaguely familiar, and anything that looks old;
6. Books by the same author (either someone in the house must like the author or the library had a lot of surplus books by that author at the sale);
7. Books we feel sorry for.

What my father packs:
1. Everything we didn't.

Play it as it lays

Not just because I like Joan Didion's writing voice, but because this is something in the neighbourhood of what what I imagined it would be like. And because I've read The Year of Magical Thinking.

Right after I meant not to write

but something reminded me of Frank O'Hara:

...I want my feet to be bare,
I want my face to be shaven, and my heart --
you can't plan on the heart, but
the better part of it, my poetry, is open.

And then a line from Audre Lourde, which I think I first saw in something of Yisheng's:

love is a word, another kind of open.

And Larkin:

On me your love falls like an enormous yes

And some times, other times, I am afraid. For what that might mean, for both and either of us.

Another kind of explanation

From Joan Didion's collected essays, I find this:

I remember one trip home, when I sat alone on a night jet from New York and read over and over some lines from a W. S. Merwin poem I had come across in a magazine, a poem about a man who had been a long time in another country and knew that he must go home:

...But it should be
Soon. Already I defend hotly
Certain of our indefensible faults,
Resent being reminded; already in my mind
Our language becomes freighted with a richness
No common tongue could offer, while the mountains
Are like nowhere on earth, and the wide rivers.

- From "Notes from a Native Daughter", in Slouching Towards Bethlehem.

If anyone can find the Merwin poem, I would be grateful.

One kind of explanation

I meant not to write publicly, not until I felt that I had made enough of a start at writing again, so I didn't sound like a parody of myself - doesn't it feel like one is always starting again? without having gone anywhere, and yet starting again - but an essay by Susan Sontag reminded me of this passage from Iris Murdoch.

The love which brings the right answer is an exercise of justice and realism and really looking. The difficulty is to keep the attention fixed upon the real situation and to prevent it from returning surreptitiously to the self with consolations of self-pity, resentment, fantasy and despair.

What I hadn't remembered was how the passage continued:

The refusal to attend may even induce a fictitious sense of freedom: I may as well toss a coin. Of course virtue is good habit and dutiful action. But the background condition of such habit and such action, in human beings, is a just mode of vision and a good quality of consciousness. It is a task to come to see the world as it is. A philosophy which leaves duty without a context and exalts the idea of freedom and power as a separate top level value ignores this task and obscures the relation between virtue and reality. We act rightly ‘when the time comes’ not out of strength of will but out of the quality of our usual attachments and with the kind of energy and discernment which we have available.

It's not even a question of fear, or of desire, or at least not foremost a question of fear or desire. But - which way does courage lie? An exercise of justice and realism and really looking.

Gone fishing

to Shanghai. Back in a week.

A live viper, or a fistful of dust

D sends a book by Jack Hitt on walking the road to Santiago, which is part history and part journal and makes the Spanish pilgrimage sound like nothing so much as a very long and very grubby college holiday. Hitt intersperses his travelogue with bits of historical commentary, including this lovely snippet:

Jean Bonnecaze, a pilgrim in 1748, wrote in his journal the recipe for a remedy said to cure a host of pilgrim ailments:

"Take a cleaned chicken, some pimpernel, chicory, chervil, and lettuce - a fistful of each. Clean it well, wash it, and dice into some pieces. Add a viper flayed alive which you will cut into little pieces after removing the head, the tail, and the entrails, keeping only the body, the heart, and the liver. Boil it all in three quarts of water, until it is reduced to three half-quarts. Remove it from the fire, strain it through a colander, and ladle it out into two soups to take one on the morning of a fast. Continue its use for fifteen days, purging before and after the fortnight....If you cannot find a live viper, substitute for it a fistful of dust."

this weekend

1. Julian is back!

2. Great bbq at XW's place on Saturnight. I think the surroundings - the cool stone patio, the long narrow pool reflecting the streetlight, the quality of the food and drink - brought out the civilised part in us - no-one did anything that would necessitate some karmic payback down the road (with the possible exception of Wii boxing).

3. Yoga, as I know it, from my grand total of three classes, runs up against all my instincts - the hippy-dippy part of me is attracted to the eastern mysticism that informs the practice, the yuppie bit tempted by the studios in orchard road, and what I think of as the sane part cynical of the enterprise of yoga - the pretty studios, the motivation for physical exercise*, the gym wear sold out in the reception area, the modern interpretations (where are the ashrams and the Hindu gods?).

* to be fair to this particular studio, there's breathing too.

FYIP

1. I've read Harry Potter 7.

2. It must be awfully difficult to pull Lear off - to have enough of a remnant of greatness in him to sustain the tragedy. I rather enjoyed the RSC Lear, despite Cordelia, who I guess was trying to be feisty and spirited but unfortunately came across as shrill and shrewish, and Edmund, who was a little too much the storybook villain.

3. I did think it was a triumph - that the energy level stayed high, the actors looked like they were really into the play, and pulled off the difficult bits with some success, and that the spear-carriers were aesthetically pleasing.

4. Somehow we seem have produced - neither the richness that a freer society might produce, where artists may have licence to experiment with thought and range and form, and political concerns do not deafen artistic concerns, nor the depth that a more oppressive society might produce, where artists may be able to bring the political cliches and distortions of the day into more human relief, and forge gold from suffering.

5. I've just finished re-reading, and marvelling at, the Northern Lights series, which is rich and complex and inventive.

"Why -" Lyra began, and found her voice weak and trembling - "Why can't I read the alethiometer anymore? Why can't I even do that? That was the one thing I could do really well, and it's just not there anymore - it just vanished as if it had never come..."

"You read it by grace," said Xaphania, looking at her, "and you can regain it by work."

"How long will that take?"

"A lifetime."

"That long..."

"But your reading will be even better then, after a lifetime of thought and effort, because it will come from conscious understanding. Grace attained like that is deeper and fuller than grace that comes freely, and furthermore, once you've gained it, it will never leave you."

Normal service will be resumed

when I've finished Harry Potter.

Talk to you then.