it is the outstretched hand we snuff
our cigarettes out in; the boat turned
away from the harbor as the waves rise.
It comes with a swelled chest and a closed
mind. Makes its bed with the Father of Lies.
It arrives while we are otherwise occupied.
This is how Death comes: It comes with flags
Jozef Imrich and Maria Imrichova on The why of cooking ...
JESUS WANTS ME FOR A MOONBEAM by Steve Rogers is a play adapted from the novella by Peter Goldsworthy. It is an evocative, haunting, moving tale about loss and familial relationships, a husband and wife, parents and children, brother and sister. It explores the nature of an ideal family, and their quest to define their lives through each other, isolating themselves
their passion and insight, and their skill in framing their creations.
with an idea. They wanted to create a prize for new playwriting in the spirit of the ancient festivals in Greece. They envisioned the theatrical equivalent of the Archibald Prize. In their mind’s eye they saw it in the Royal Botanic Gardens, within sight of the Lysicrates Monument, on a warm summer night. Most importantly they believed that the winning play should be decided by the audience: the people of Sydney celebrating the talents of the playwrights living amongst us.
My first thought was that they were crazy ...
"To believe that change is driven by technology, when technology is driven by humans, renders force and power invisible," Changing Landscapes
isn't so much literary critic with theories to peddle as an enthusiast with pleasures to share and enemies to fend off... fend off
Edmund Wilson gave Fitzgerald a copy of The Trial in early 1939, during a visit east. In May, Fitzgerald wrote thanking him, the first of his Los Angeles letters Wilson uses in The Crack Up: “It seemed to renew old times [with you] learning about Franz Kafka […]” Fitzgerald wrote another Princeton friend around this time recommending, among other books, “The Trial —fantastic novel by the Czech Franz Kafka which you may have to wait for but it is worth it.” Eighteen months later, the Czech was still on his mind, writing Max Perkins, his Scribner’s editor: “Kafka was an extraordinary Czechoslavakian [sic] Jew who died in ’36 [wrong, but the Crack Up year]. He will never have a wide public but The Trial and America are two books writers will never be able to forget.” He closes: “This is the first day off I have taken for many months and I just wanted to tell you the book is coming along and that comparatively speaking all is well.”
He was dead a week later. The Afterlife of F. Scott Fitzgerald
In Hungary they walk by a river and Ivan says that he wants to throw a stray dog into it. She asks why he’d want to do such a thing. He says rivers make him want to throw things into them, and jokes that he can’t throw her in. She knows this is “meant to sound playful,” but feels “insulted and humiliated.” Ivan reads her mood correctly: “I think you don’t like to throw the dog into the river.” I don’t think Ivan would throw a dog into a river, and I don’t think they’re talking about dogs. The Sexless Idiot