flâneur
© richard long, courtesy of haunch of venison gallery
© alec soth
© richard long, courtesy of haunch of venison gallery
© alec soth
generation of the loss
‘A few things I have found to be true. If you leave out important things or events that you know about, the story is strengthened. If you leave or skip something because you do not know it, the story will be worthless. The test of any story is how very good the stuff that you, not your editors, omit.’ E. Hemingway in The Art Of the Short Story
To watch ‘Ash Wednesday, New Orleans’ essay: http://nyti.ms/ayjzGo
‘If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of the iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water. The writer who omits things because he does not know them only makes hollow places in his writing.’ E. Hemingway in Death in the Afternoon
sentimental education or the invisible girlfriend
Less than 6 weeks before his death, Fernando Pessoa wrote the following poem under one of his heteronyms, Álvaro Campos.
All Love Letters are Ridiculous
All love letters
Are ridiculous.
They would not be love letters if they
Were not ridiculous.
In my time I also wrote love letters
Like the others,
Ridiculous.
Love letters, if there is love,
Have to be
Ridiculous.
But, finally,
It is only children who have never written
Love letters
That are
Ridiculous.
Oh how I wish I were back in the time
When I wrote (without being aware
Of it) love letters that are
Ridiculous.
The truth is that today
It is my memory
Of those love letters
That is
Ridiculous.
(All singular words,
Like singular feelings,
Are naturally
Ridiculous.)
Au Revoir, Sticky
By Lester B. Morrison
The next time
my imaginary mistress
demands a love poem,
I’m going to untangle the lines from my gills and
plunge the hook into her sweet
exfoliated cheek –
A Post-It from the Son of Sam:
“I’m not a wemon hater,
but a monster..”
The next time she whispers,
Sing a love song from your cell,
I won’t wail like a lonely tranny.
I’ll kiss off to Caucasus,
drink butter and moonshine
till the kidnapped maiden cries,
“me hoot, it hurts, sonny boy.”
This is my music,
Sweet sticky,
This is the song for my no-see-ums,
The chubby behemoth is pushing off,
Mr. Bones bids farewell,
Bon nuit
and sweet dreams.
treasure hAunting
© felicie haymoz, mycelium, 2010 (commissioned by yasmina reggad for thedignityofmovementoftheiceberg)
musée imaginaire
© maurice jarnoux, paris match/scoop, 2008
This is my dream. A tree house. A rope. A cave. I call it Lost Boy Mountain. I sleep in the tree house. I work in the cave – my basement museum. For my eyes only. Everything is connected. This is how I imagine it:
the dignity of movement of the iceberg 
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