Une Charge Trop Lourde

Ces mots, nous devons les oublier, parce que, à présent, personne ne nous dit des mots semblables et parce que le souvenir que nous en avons est une charge trop lourde à porter.

Agota Kristof — Le Grand Cahier

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I suppose that I could try to explain the thrill of the first piano chords of Gloria, while Patti slowly slurs “Jesus died for somebody’s sins, but not mine” — an anticipation of a long build-up which explodes like an angry orgasm five minutes later, complete with all the tender moments, false warnings and crescendos that almost get there but need to be reined in for the sake of the final blast.

The catch is precisely that by trying to do so I’d end up killing my own memory of that rush and I don’t want to relinquish any part of it.

Not the sweaty jumping around next to a potential girl-friend at some high school party and not the yelling of the lyrics at the top of my lungs with a sense of freedom that only a teenager can hope to achieve in the process of defining the cornerstones of his musical fabric.

I could never appropriately describe Lenny Kaye’s focused and intense presence on stage, not Jay Dee Daugherty’s precise, powerful and agile drumming which marked me forever, but especially not Patti’s luminescence, raw, angry and mischievous, punctuating what was to me a sonic revelation with chosen bits of beat- and 19th century french poetry, a surprisingly fitting combination on the first punk rock concert I ever attended. And I use the term “punk rock” very very loosely here since she was then already so much more than that.

It is confusing to me that she should have become famous for the song Because the Night (which is technically Bruce Springsteen’s and the 3 minute predictable pop-song structure shows) on what I consider to be one of her weakest albums, Easter ( I refuse to discuss Wave for reasons that should be obvious.) Curiously enough it is precisely on Easter that she and the band achieve something of almost Gloria greatness: Babelogue/Rock’n Roll Nigger is both monumental and monumentally ignored and the only reason I own that record in the first place.

It is because of all this that I don’t want to go back in time and in the process destroy my teenage self (or at least those parts which would conceivably be worth preserving.) I’ll keep on believing that both Horses and Radio Ethiopia were composed and produced specifically with the purpose of giving me a soundtrack to those years of my life.

The best I can do is this:




• • •

The Moon-Anointed Shelf


The Pleiades are sinking calm as paint,
The earth’s huge camber follows out,
Turning in sleep, the oceanic curve.

Defined in concave like a human eye
Or a cheek pressed warm on the dark’s cheek,
Like dancers to a music they deserve.

This balcony, a moon-anointed shelf
Above a silent garden holds my bed.
I slept. But the dispiriting autumn moon,

In her slow expurgation of the sky
Needs company: is brooding on the dead,
And so am I now, so am I.

Lawrence Durrell — Lesbos

• • •


Ich bin froh, dies alles und noch mehr zu erleben, denn gerade diese Erlebnisse, die traurig sind, klären den schaffenden Menschen.

— Egon Schiele

Portrait of Arthur Rössler, 1910

Portrait of Arthur Rössler, 1910

• • •

Strategy For Life

What does it mean to be yourself?” he asked. “If it means to do what you think you ought to do, then you’re doing that already. If it means to act like you’re exempt from society’s influence, that’s the worst advice in the world; you would probably stop bathing and wearing clothes. The advice to ‘be yourself’ is obviously nonsense. But our brains accept this tripe as wisdom because it is more comfortable to believe we have a strategy for life than to believe we have no idea how to behave.

— Scott Adams

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Women (mini)

IMG_20150607_163151 2

I’m not entirely sure which gods I have to thank for the profusion of women both drop dead gorgeous and powerful in my life, all the while wondering if I deserved it at all; just the thought of having to play football (the sport you play with your feet, not the other one) with sons and grandsons would be enough to make me reach for the gin bottle.

I must be doing something right.

Hello Alice ❤️, welcome to the club.

• • •


And the words slide into the slots ordained by syntax, and glitter as with atmospheric dust with those impurities which we call meaning.

Anthony Burgess — Enderby Outside

• • •

A Cold Hand On a Warm Forehead


Much like an athlete preparing for weeks to run a marathon, I’ve been circling around Karl Ove Knausgård’s Min Kamp, a six book series (and thousands of pages) of an autobiographical novel. Every review reminds me of Proust and of how difficult it was to read In Search of Lost Time for the first time (or tenth). That said I think I’m now at an age where I can perhaps better grasp the subtlety of a structure which at first glance feels like there isn’t one at all.

I can’t speak for other writers, but I write to create something that is better than myself, I think that’s the deepest motivation, and it is so because I’m full of self-loathing and shame. Writing doesn’t make me a better person, nor a wiser and happier one, but the writing, the text, the novel, is a creation of something outside of the self, an object, kind of neutralized by the objectivity of literature and form. The temper, the voice, the style. All in it is carefully constructed and controlled. This is writing for me—a cold hand on a warm forehead.

The Paris Review — Completely Without Dignity: An Interview with Karl Ove Knausgård

• • •

The Unexamined Life

I suspect that my grandfather’s life was real in a sense that my father’s life hasn’t quite been, and my life is not at all. The crucial difference is the lack of self-consciousness, and that self-consciousness is yet another hallmark of the perpetual, infantilised adolescents we have all become, monsters of introspection hovering twitchily on the edge of self-obsession, peering into the abyss of our own inner disconnection, occasionally aware that while the unexamined life may not be worth living, the life which only exists to be examined is barely manageable; barely indeed a life.

Michael Bywater — Big Babies, Or: Why Can’t We Just Grow Up?

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Philosophy Is Like a Tree

I drink, therefore I am . . . drunk. Ha ha! I thought this would be easier after my sixth glass of wine, but alas, it is still absolutely terrible. Oh, how my world grows smaller when I think of you not in it, and—no, you know what? Let me start over. Philosophy is like a tree, and it has all these branches that extend outward, but you’re like a shrub. Cute and small, but not well versed in rationalist thought. Do you get what I’m trying to say?

René Descartes

More hilarity at Philosophers’ Breakup Letters Throughout History (The New Yorker).

• • •

Where Life Is


There is an infinity of purposeful silence during the microscopic pauses of the torpid white noise.

• • •

Harvest Moon

I know I should toddle off to Marco’s now and have a good cry and listen to his sweet useless pep talk and pretend to make sense of it all. But there’s nothing in me but weariness. I’m weary of moving through life in this way, punished for my capabilities, betrayed by the glib promises of love. I’m weary of managing these disappointments. I’m weary of my body’s gruesome tick. And I’m weary of telling women it can be different.

In this mood of enervation, I wander the docks, the old schooners burdened under ornate masts, the colonial cemetery dressed in gravestones, names and years in elegant rows, and roasted garlic everywhere, everywhere tourists in their pink summer legs and dusk on the bricks, rain gutters fat with pigeons and rooftops sprigged with antennae, the sediments of beauty, I mean, and the widows on their stoops, done with the suffering of men and silent before the soft click of bocce balls. There is so much time in this life for grief. So many men lying in wait. And here, tonight, there is a harvest moon, which hangs so heavily yellow above the sea it might be God, or my heart.

Steve Almond — The Evil B.B. Chow

• • •


The moral world has no particular objection to vice, but an insuperable repugnance to hearing vice called by its proper name.

William Thackeray — Vanity Fair

• • •

Tira la Música por las Ventanas

…or at least that’s how Debussy described Isaac Albéniz’s music, mostly known for his epic Iberia. These “rumours” were inspired by the beach of La Caleta, in Cádiz, where every rock has a specific name.

It’s hot outside. Open the window and sleep tight:


• • •

Cent Mille Figures

Si comme la vérité, le mensonge n’avait qu’un visage, nous serions en meilleurs termes. Car nous prendrions pour certain l’opposé de ce que dirait le menteur. Mais le revers de la vérité a cent mille figures et un champ indéfini.

Michel de Montaigne — Essais

• • •


Sie können sich vorstellen, wie das ist, wenn man sich selbst aufschlägt wie ein Buch und lauter Druckfehler darin entdecken muß, einen nach dem andern, auf jeder Seite wimmelt es von Druckfehlern! Und alles ist trotz dieser vielen hundert und tausend Druckfehler meisterhaft! Es handelt sich um eine Aneinanderreihung von Meisterstücken!

Thomas Bernhard — Frost

• • •

Love Letters

I’ve always wanted to write magnificent love letters and plenty of them and one of my greatest regrets is that I don’t know how; wired as I am to always be certain that words can make a difference, when it comes to laying my soul bare, I invariably end up coming across like a puppy desperately yapping for crumbles of affection: it’s painful to write and ridiculous to read.

For that alone I envy Leoš Janáček who after a failed marriage and a string of affairs fell in love with a married woman who was to become his muse. Not only did he compose music for her (which could well be considered the most sublime form of the love letter) he also wrote actual letters, over 700 of them over a period of ten years, sometimes daily. How he could wax poetic on love for someone who didn’t (but also did) want to hear about it is almost pathetic in its determination.

I also pity him. His music came at the cost of that unrequited, undefined relationship of ten years to another man’s wife — without fail a recipe for endless amounts of pain and deception — but especially the death of his daughter Olga: having three daughters of my own I can’t even bring myself to continue this sentence.

I think I’ll keep my missives in the desk drawer then: I am almost certain that I could never survive such affliction if it were the price to pay for writing the supreme love letter.

Perhaps there is no such thing.



• • •

Hopeless Idiot


Immense beauty doesn’t need labels, context or explanation.

I don’t think you need to know anything about what you’re hearing, seeing or reading to truly feel its effect, even in the most secret depths of your soul, if your soul is willing to fully absorb it, be it by design or by choice.

How small and speechless do you feel before Górecki’s Symphony of Sorrowful Songs without even having to know who Górecki was or what the piece is about? Is is truly not important you see: it is an unique opportunity to let your capacity and amplitude to resonate soar with much deeper sensations than words can explain, much less ones of factual explanation.

I cried the first time I heard it (and was very surprised that I did) and don’t even know why or rather couldn’t find the words to explain it. Better yet I may have glimpsed that there aren’t, there will never be in fact, words to describe it at all and the sensation was overwhelming, terrifying in its finality and incredibly recomforting at the same time.

(I’m not going to post the piece here, I can’t: it is to me an extremely private experience, one for you to look for if you are curious. I simply cannot share it in the same vein as other works I’ve published before because I’d need to be next to you, silent next to your silence and also need to be as certain as possible that those are indeed silences that can resonate with each other and elevate us.)

Words and facts are for the hopeless idiot like myself who, by some ironic twist of fate, is genetically condemned to amass infinite amounts of random trivia, fragments which he sometimes manages to connect to each other. They are for the idiot who wants to understand the beauty of the beauty itself in an endless contrapuntal canon of patterns. They are for the idiot who desperately tries to find sense and structure in sentiments too beautiful to explain yet just when he might have, chooses to not say them out of fear of sounding arrogant, inadequate, inappropriate or simply stupid. They are for the idiot in me, forever silent always at exactly the wrong moment.

I wish I wasn’t such a hopeless idiot. I wish I could take it all back and start over.

I want to go home.

• • •



Poor Johann Pachelbel, whose Canon and Gigue is invariably lumped with Albinoni’s Adagio and Vivaldi’s Four Seasons: we have advertising to thank for that and for turning those and many other pieces of classical music into something utterly trivial and cheap, which they clearly are not. Pachelbel was a friend of the Bach family (Johann Cristoph was his pupil, who in turn was his younger brother Johann Sebastian’s teacher).

I’ve always loved the Canon for its formal, predictable and yet playful form in opposition to some of the Adagio‘s more melancholic moments. It could be an illustration of a life that we long for but never get to live, one where every single experience is one of peace, tranquility, enlightening conversation, absolute love and summer sunsets.


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