( No longer ) Anxious Swann

... You are Whitman, you are Poe, you are Mark Twain, you are Emily Dickinson and Edna St. Vincent Millay, you are Neruda and Mayakovsky and Pasolini, you are an American or a non-American, you can conquer the conquerors with words..."
— lawrence ferlinghetti — from "poetry as insurgent art " my opinions are not those of my firm -- they are my nan's

Groucho Marx (from the film "Animal Crackers")

" Honorable Charles H. Hungadunga c/o Hungadunga, Hungadunga, Hungadunga, Hungadunga, & McCormack , Gentlemen? In re yours of the 5th inst., yours to hand and beg to rep., brackets, that we have gone over the ground carefully and we seem to believe, i.e., to wit., e.g., in lieu, that despite all our precautionary measures which have been involved, we seem to believe that it is hardly necessary for us to proceed unless we receive an ipso facto that is not neglible at this moment, quotes, unquotes, and quotes. Hoping this finds you, I beg to remain, as of June 9, cordially yours, Regards, " (letter to his lawyer, dictated by captain spaulding -groucho marx- to his secretary horatio jamison -zeppo marx-, in the film animal Crackers -1930)

Celso Emilio Ferreiro "Moi Lonxe"

(Celso E. Ferreiro) " Verdes outeiros da nativa terra durmindo nun azul de fumes quedos. Rente de min estades, doces cumes, pero eu estou moi lonxe, lonxe, lonxe. Serpe de prata, río, longo espello pasando con lecer. As túas augas navegan o meu peito lentamente, pero estou moi lonxe, lonxe, lonxe. Antigas torres en líquenes douradas, o chafarís, as rúas silenzosas vanme cantando un son de gaitas ledas, pero eu estou moi lonxe, lonxe, lonxe. Un neno loiro en preces sulagado buscando amor. Agora vai conmigo, dentro de min, chorándome na ialma, pero eu estou moi lonxe, lonxe, lonxe. Un día voltarei, nativa terra, a descansar en ti dos meus camiños, mais non te alcontrarei. En min te levo, pero eu estou moi lonxe, lonxe, lonxe ."

Frank O'Hara: "You are gorgeous and I am coming"

" Vaguely I hear the purple roar of the torn-down Third Avenue El It sways slightly but firmly like a hand or a golden-downed thigh normally I don’t think of sounds as colored unless I’m feeling corrupt concrete Rimbaud obscurity of emotion which is simple and very definite even lasting, yes it may be that dark and purifying wave, the death of boredom nearing the heights themselves may destroy you in the pure air to be further complicated, confused, empty but refilling, exposed to light With the past falling away as an acceleration of nerves thundering and shaking aims its aggregating force like the Metro towards a realm of encircled travel rending the sound of adventure and becoming ultimately local and intimate repeating the phrases of an old romance which is constantly renewed by the endless originality of human loss the air the stumbling quiet of breathing newly the heavens’ stars all out we are all for the captured time of our being . "

J. R. R. Tolkien; "Leaf by Niggle"

" There was once a little man called Niggle, who had a long journey to make. He did not want to go, indeed the whole idea was distasteful to him; but he could not get out of it. He knew he would have to start some time, but he did not hurry with his preparations. Niggle was a painter. Not a very successful one, partly because he had many other things to do. Most of these things he thought were a nuisance; but he did them fairly well, when he could not get out of them: which (in his opinion) was far too often. The laws in his country were rather strict. There were other hindrances, too. For one thing, he was sometimes just idle, and did nothing at all. For another, he was kind-hearted, in a way. You know the sort of kind heart: it made him uncomfortable more often than it made him do anything; and even when he did anything, it did not prevent him from grumbling, losing his temper, and swearing (mostly to himself). All the same, it did land him in a good many odd jobs for hi

E.E. Cummings: "35"

( nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands) " somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond any experience,your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the color of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain,has such small

Franquin: "Idées Noires"

John Ashbery: "City Afternoon"

" A veil of haze protects this Long-ago afternoon forgotten by everybody In this photograph, most of them now Sucked screaming through old age and death. If one could seize America Or at least a fine forgetfulness That seeps into our outline Defining our volumes with a stain That is fleeting too But commemorates Because it does define, after all: Gray garlands, that threesome Waiting for the light to change, Air lifting the hair of one Upside down in the reflecting pool . "

Mario Benedetti: "Desmitifiquemos la Vía Láctea"

" Tampoco hay que hacer un mito de la vía láctea faja blanquecina dice el larousse debida a multitud innumerable (sic) de estrellas después de todo es un techo interior todo lo vistoso que se quiera aunque en definitiva un poco empalagoso hay quienes la llaman camino de santiago y los que miran fanáticamente el asfalto ni siquiera se han enterado de que existe a veces parece una burda imitación de un planetario de provincia quizá sea una merced del hemisferio austral pero a esta altura no vamos a estimular mercedes además si uno la mira con detenimiento puede llegar a sentir vértigo o tortícolis o un deseo inexplicable de levantar vuelo no hay que hacer un mito de la vía láctea ahora bien ya que la he desmitificado a fondo ¿puedo volver a echarla de menos? "

Tony Judt: "Reapprisals. Reflections on the Forgotten Twentieth Century" // Endorsing Jeremy Corbyn

( yippieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!! yippieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!! ) (past endorsements in this blog have not gone the way we would like it -- but elementary decency and common sense advice a vote against theresa may's brand of nationalistic pettiness -- for the eu, for britain, for the world, for the belief that we are all human way before nationals of country x or country z -- vote corbyn!! ) " Of all the transformations of the past three decades, the dissapearance of 'intellectuals' is perhaps the most symptomatic. The twentieth century was the century of the intellectual: the very term first came into use (pejoratively) at the turn of the century and from the outset it described men and women in the world of learning, literature, and the arts who applied themselves to debating and influencing public opinion and policy. [...] We are all familiar with intellectuals who speak only on behalf of their coun

Karl Ove Knausgaard: "A Death in the Family"

( t hus i spoke, when faster than i could imagine a spirit led me forth from my own home to a place i thought i'd never go. -- holderlin " patmos " ) " There is, in London, a painting that moves me as much every time I go and see it. It is a self-portrait painted by the late Rembrandt. His later paintings are usually characterized by an extreme coarseness of stroke, rendering everything subordinate to the expression of the moment, at once shining and sacred, and still unsurpassed in art, with the possible exception of Hölderlin’s later poems, however dissimilar and incomparable they may be—for where Hölderlin’s light, evoked through language, is ethereal and celestial, Rembrandt’s light, evoked through color, is earthy, metallic, and material —but this one painting which hangs in the National Gallery was painted in a slightly more classically realistic, lifelike style, more in the manner of the younger Rembrandt. Old age. All th

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