mandelstam
My pen has become insubordinate: it has splintered and squirted its black blood out in all directions
I am not afraid of incoherence or gaps.
I shear the paper with long scissors.
I paste on ribbons as a fringe.
A manuscript is always a storm, worn to rags, torn by beaks.
It is the first draft of a sonata.
Scribbling is better than writing.
I do not fear seams or the yellowness of the glue.
I am a tailor, I am an idler.
I draw Marat in his stockings.
I draw martins.
It is terrifying to think that our life is a tale without a plot or hero, made up out of desolation and glass, out of the feverish babble of constant digressions...
Destroy your manuscript, but save whatever you have inscribed in the margin out of boredom, out of helplessness, and, as it were, in a dream.
Sometimes a lowered lid sees more than an eye, and the tiers of wrinkles on a human face peer like a gathering of old blind men.
O to bring back the bashfulness of seeing fingers
They who are going to die can love and see
Sound can be pouring through their fingers
I am not afraid of incoherence or gaps.
I shear the paper with long scissors.
I paste on ribbons as a fringe.
A manuscript is always a storm, worn to rags, torn by beaks.
It is the first draft of a sonata.
Scribbling is better than writing.
I do not fear seams or the yellowness of the glue.
I am a tailor, I am an idler.
I draw Marat in his stockings.
I draw martins.
It is terrifying to think that our life is a tale without a plot or hero, made up out of desolation and glass, out of the feverish babble of constant digressions...
Destroy your manuscript, but save whatever you have inscribed in the margin out of boredom, out of helplessness, and, as it were, in a dream.
Sometimes a lowered lid sees more than an eye, and the tiers of wrinkles on a human face peer like a gathering of old blind men.
O to bring back the bashfulness of seeing fingers
They who are going to die can love and see
Sound can be pouring through their fingers
posted by Ernest Scribbler at 5/06/2006 12:43:00 AM
2 Comments:
Whether there is a plot/hero or not, the tale is the same. Or, at least, we are the same. It may be terrifying, but such is the human challenge. I don't believe that life has more 'purpose' if there is a hidden plot, or less if there is none. People have lived lives which have had huge effects on history, good and bad. Did their lives have meaning?
Re: Destroy your manuscript
reminded me of: "Manuscripts do not burn", M&M by Bulgakov. I just reread it. If you read it, what did you think?
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