misterchu:

crashinglybeautiful:

“The most important and hardest thing for any writer to learn is the discipline of sitting down and writing even when you have to spend three days writing bad stuff before the fourth day, when you write something better. If you’ve been away from what you’ve been working on even for a day and a half, you have to put in those three days of bad writing to get to the fourth, or you lose the thread, you lose the rhythm. When you are a young writer, those three days are so unpleasant that you tend to think, ‘I’ll go away until the mood strikes me.’ Well, you’re out of the mood because you’re not sitting there, because you haven’t had that period of trying to push through till the fourth day when the rhythm comes.”
—Joan Didion
Another great post about writing and life courtesy of the excellent, apoetreflects.

Mister Chu:
It is so. And she is about as good as there is. Very good. As Mister Pablo mentions inspiration is real, but it must find you working.


I needed this. Thanks, Joan!

misterchu:

crashinglybeautiful:

“The most important and hardest thing for any writer to learn is the discipline of sitting down and writing even when you have to spend three days writing bad stuff before the fourth day, when you write something better. If you’ve been away from what you’ve been working on even for a day and a half, you have to put in those three days of bad writing to get to the fourth, or you lose the thread, you lose the rhythm. When you are a young writer, those three days are so unpleasant that you tend to think, ‘I’ll go away until the mood strikes me.’ Well, you’re out of the mood because you’re not sitting there, because you haven’t had that period of trying to push through till the fourth day when the rhythm comes.”

—Joan Didion

Another great post about writing and life courtesy of the excellent, apoetreflects.



Mister Chu:

It is so. And she is about as good as there is. Very good. As Mister Pablo mentions inspiration is real, but it must find you working.



I needed this. Thanks, Joan!

To Be Published in Color: THE SOUND AND THE FURY

From the article:

Now, following a suggestion from a member, the Folio Society has worked with two Faulkner scholars, Stephen Ross and Noel Polk, for the past year to pin down the different time periods in the novel, and is publishing the first ever coloured-ink edition of The Sound and the Fury on Friday 6 July, to mark the 50th anniversary of the author’s death.

Classy

The wonderful Roberto Calasso, author of THE MARRIAGE OF CADMUS AND HARMONY, which is wonderful too.

I think I’m back.

In case anyone might be interested. Happy 4th!

Au revoir.

I’m probably done here. I haven’t been much inspired to post, and I don’t feel I’m getting anything out of it. Unfollow at will (although I will continue to keep up with those of you I am following as of now). Thanks for reading, all!

In a transparent terror that floated like egg white.

Alone
by Tomas Tranströmer

              I

One evening in February I came near to dying here.
The car skidded sideways on the ice, out
on the wrong side of the road. The approaching cars –
their lights – closed in.

My name, my girls, my job
broke free and were left silently behind
further and further away. I was anonymous
like a boy in a playground surrounded by enemies.

The approaching traffic had huge lights.
They shone on me while I pulled at the wheel
in a transparent terror that floated like egg white.
The seconds grew – there was space in them –
they grew as big as hospital buildings.

You could almost pause
and breathe out for a while
before being crushed.

Then something caught: a helping grain of sand
or a wonderful gust of wind. The car broke free
and scuttled smartly right over the road.
A post shot up and cracked – a sharp clang – it
flew away in the darkness.

Then – stillness. I sat back in my seat-belt
and saw someone coming through the whirling snow
to see what had become of me.

    II

I have been walking for a long time
on the frozen Östergötland fields.
I have not seen a single person.

In other parts of the world
there are people who are born, live and die
in a perpetual crowd.

To be always visible – to live
in a swarm of eyes –
a special expression must develop.
Face coated with clay.

The murmuring rises and falls
while they divide up among themselves
the sky, the shadows, the sand grains.

I must be alone
ten minutes in the morning
and ten minutes in the evening.
– Without a programme.

Everyone is queuing at everyone’s door.

Many.

One.

Style is as much under the words as in the words. It is as much the soul as it is the flesh of a work.
Death and the Penguin

Mellville House is publishing Andrey Kurkov’s crime-fiction, including one of my favorite books of all time (see title of this post). Hot. And they’re having a celebratory Adopt-a-Penguin program. What’s not to love? The details:

We will adopt a penguin in the name of any bookstore who successfully sells 25 copies of either book (combined or single title) in the series, which includes Death and the Penguin, or Penguin Lost. The contest will run from now until December 31st.

As a reader all you need to do is head down to your local bookstore and pick up a copy of either book. If your local bookstore hasn’t heard about the promotion let them know about it by sending them to www.penguinlost.com.  If they are already participating, well then buy a book and help save a penguin.

Read something.

"A London Life" by Henry James (via Bookslut).

The Kenyon Review Fellowships

This is a banging opportunity for post-grads.

That we do not speak is louder than bombs.

dear love,
by Barbara Jane Reyes 

you dream in the language of dodging bullets and artillery fire.
new, sexy diagnoses have been added to the lexicon on your behalf
(“charlie don’t surf,” has also been added to the lexicon on your behalf).

in this home that is not our home, we have mutually exiled each
other. i walk down your street in the rain, and i do not call you. i
walk in the opposite direction of where i know to find you. that we
do not speak is louder than bombs. 

there are times that missing you is a matter of procedure. now is
not one of those times. there are times when missing you hurts. so
it comes to this, vying for geography. there is a prayer stuck in my
throat. douse me in gasoline, my love, and strike a match. let’s see
this prayer ignite to high heaven.

A woman must continually watch herself. She is almost continually accompanied by her own image of herself. Whilst she is walking across a room or whilst she is weeping at the death of her father, she can scarcely avoid envisaging herself walking or weeping. … And so she comes to consider the surveyor and the surveyed within her as the two constituent yet always distinct elements of her identity as a woman. … Thus she turns herself into an object—and most particularly an object of vision: a sight.
Anyone read this? It’s knocking my socks off so far. I wish I could spend the rest of my (rainy) workday on it. Here’s one great line:

Every single thing that happens in a life is like Chekhov’s Gun, trustfully casting before it the shadow of its own final shape, if only we knew how to see it clearly.

Anyone read this? It’s knocking my socks off so far. I wish I could spend the rest of my (rainy) workday on it. Here’s one great line:

Every single thing that happens in a life is like Chekhov’s Gun, trustfully casting before it the shadow of its own final shape, if only we knew how to see it clearly.

THE HUNT FOR HEMINGWAY

booksijustread:

TAGLINE - In an epic life of perpetual motion—Paris, Pamplona, Mount Kilimanjaro, Key West, etc.—one place was truly home to Ernest Hemingway: the Finca Vigía, his rustic estate outside Havana. It was kept by the Cuban government as a shrine in the half-century since his suicide, and its full contents remained a mystery until 2002. One of the American team that finally gained access, A. Scott Berg, shares the discovery of a literary treasure trove to celebrate the publication of thousands of never-before-seen letters now to be included in the forthcoming volumes of Hemingway’s collected correspondence.