St. DONALD
by Eliot Weinberger DONALD (Scotland, 8th century) He lived a devout life with his daughters, the Nine Virgins, after his wife’s death, but his obscurity makes his popularity as a name for boys puzzling.
journal
another post about Levrero, “jumping up and down like an excited dog,” that’s me not him
Strange to think at the time I was born Levrero was writing feverishly in Piriápolis. He was 26, says the TRANSLATOR’S AFTERWORD. Annie McDermott, the translator, adds that he later looked back on that time with wonder, as his ‘imaginative’ period.
Imagination, she writes, is for Levrero very different
pure movement | the American Ideology [& a link]
is and I found this: see here and here and here and here
the sacred (wild) shot
. . . the sacred—the cut off (etymology: sacer, “the power, being, or realm understood by religious persons to be at the core of existence” that is cut off, set off or apart, restricted . . . “to have a transformative effect on their lives and destinies.” [source])
. . . the sacred shot = the mystery of the
things I love, not people—too obvious
1. Mario Levrero
2. Bodhi Linux
3. while we’re on the subject of books (Levrero), Michel Houellebecq’s Annihilation . . .
hang on, why “too obvious”?
1. because you can tell it from the outside
2. see? from the bodies mine is in proximity to,
3. how close I am . . . however,
insular discovery of freedom . . . {illus. Susan Hauptman} .
Neill Duncan (see “for Neill” here): In a funny sort of way, the Primitive Art Group opened my horizons musically, but in other ways it made me narrow-minded. . . . We were doing this edgy music and that other stuff’s so straight. Everything else was shit. We had that attitude. We
excerpt from Daniel Handler’s And Then? And Then? What Else? (2024), fuck blaming, fuck forgiving, fuck cancelling and its moral predation on literature: & the company we have when alone with a book
e.e. cummings:
It is with roses and locomotives (not to mention acrobats Spring electricity Coney Island the 4th of July the eyes of mice and Niagara Falls) that my “poems” are competing.
They are also competing with each other, with elephants, and with El Greco.
Every time I read