The photo banner of this blog, which will be returning in full force soon, is the statue of Joyce siting over his grave. Here are a few grave photos.
Ezra Pound at JJ's grave
Peter Orlovsky at JJ's grave
Favorite zoo animal
Tiny reindeer dancer
you put the abra in lab rat.
Appoint a green snowsuit
to sort out illegal downloading.
A specter is haunting communism.
I think the lake reminds me of a wafer
bottled in Arkansas & shipped
with maple porn.
Left Behind to certify the velcro of small things
—antlers in our milk, the hen
that guesses our weight—
the hen that stamps our names on tin bands—
Management of Widow Burning,
or, The Cultural Logic of Late Creationism.
You can’t smoke in here, this is America.
A good police will patent a lint barrow.
When you fix it in a field of filthy x rays
one girl’s ankle monitor is
as sad as another.
for Matthea Harvey
[Things I may no longer bring on airplanes:]
Things I may no longer bring on airplanes:
1. Box cutters
This spleen & idyll is legally a star.
Let us stockpile rupturewort & eryngo
in the unlikely event of water landing.
All that is sullied melts into flesh.
Hebrew, the original HTML.
How will I open my box on the airplane??
I saw a bat another bat
& two batlike swifts
that might’ve been bats.
I mean that literally.
I mean “literally”
Made like a moving picture
not about things but with—bonny a machinist as pleases.
I mean I have real hair to transfer
I have moths to gale. Say it, us
look that tiny, tinsel-mote October
revolutions, belly-belly barometric span.
Sure, sad stories I love to leave where they lie.
For who can sing so softly heroes from their stupid tombs?
Didn’t I know all this in the version where your negotiations of
it is simply astounding to see an animal dead on a highway
were nonnegotiable? No one if you lift the rain
from the bucket & fling it back into the sky says
hey it’s raining again
for Anna Clark
Very little perhaps nothing
is known about boats.
I was never bitten
by a radioactive pony.
I believe we lack
a public health system
The world’s tallest freestanding smokestack
is in Sudbury, Ontario.
Lights at the top make it
scrutable to aircraft.
We’re waiting to de-fern.
Soft pink widows
Uplink with the Candied Piety
Filament the trash-fish trade
Your spinal melodies comfort
Tried to use the spoon but the spoon
It wants its robot raspberries back
Tried on neon, neon
& xanadus from the fever archive
Remix the minesweeper’s tiny sex
Thus you no-man-fathom, pee-shy
Braving the salad to saturate
with wire-minded professionals
The religious left’s turntablist
Printed our t-shirts in narrow daylight
Like an odometer you sundered valentines
Fire-static limbered your ambit
You were weirded by an old box of receipts
Purple numbers italicizing trees
----ALL POETRY BY MICHAEL ROBBINS
Out of this universal feast of death, out of this extremity of fever, kindling the rain-washed evening sky to a fiery glow, may it be that Love one day shall mount?
Contrast Porter-Lowe's leaden, awkward prose with Woods's infinitely more supple phrasing:
And out of this worldwide festival of death, this ugly rutting fever that inflames the evening sky all round -- will love someday rise up out of this, too?
It's impossible not to see the improvement. Mann's original German prose is notoriously difficult: circuitous, occasionally labyrinthine and filled with elaborate constructions. Woods succeeds admirably in translating the hefty style without sacrificing tone or flow. This is a translation for the ages.
Mencken in The Smart Set was among the first to call attention to the split in Fitzgerald betwen the entertainer and the serious novelist: 'Fitzgerald is curiously ambidextrous. Will he porceed via the first part of This Side of Paradise to the cold groves of beautiful letters, or will he proceed via 'Head and Shoulders' into the sunshine that warms Robert W. Chambers and Harold McGrath?
For decades, Dmitri Nabokov kept the manuscript locked in a Swiss bank vault, allowing only a select group of Nabokov scholars to read it, and occasionally suggesting in interviews that he would destroy the novel. In 2008, more than 30 years after his father's death, he announced to a German magazine his decision to publish the work, saying that his father had appeared to him in a vision and told him to "go ahead and publish."
[...]So that's something to keep on the happy list. Slate's Ron Rosenbaum also put a piece about the book up today -- you can read that, if you want to give yourself a nice acute headache between the eyes. Apparently it will be published as facsimiles of the notecards, and perforated index cards that can be torn out and shuffled, since the original order, at least in the latter half, was lost anyway.
"The opening few words just blew me away," said Mr. Boyd, who is also editing three other collections of Mr. Nabokov's work, including previously unpublished letters to his wife. "There's a kind of narrative device that he's never used before and that I don't think anybody else has ever used before."
Disguised as praise, books that offer practical uses for literary classics are in fact acts of iconoclastic arrogance. Proclaiming their fealty to the ordinary, they are driven by impatience with—even contempt for—the actual experience of reading extraordinary works.Cheers, Steven Kellman.
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Children of all abilities are integrated into their peer group classrooms with modifications made to the curriculum to ensure that all students participate to the best of their ability. Children are encouraged to work together cooperatively, while the Second Step Social Skills program attempts to teach conflict resolution skills from kindergarten through grade five.
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Mr. B. Bailey
These are two different edits. The top one has the awesome intro lyrics, and a unique but kind of awesome ending. The bottom one has the closer to correct ending but omits some lyrics. Real thing is 13 minutes long and available.
I kept laughing to myself while listening to the words. Part of that may have been due to the weirdly funny photos that were projected on the screen of him during the show and faded around. But I don't think most people appreciated it. The only other people who seem to have written about the concert are this girl, who seems to really get Destroyer and wrote something pretty good about it, and then people like Mr. Big City, who wrote this hilarious review.