Book//mark -The Sense of an Ending | Julian Barnes, 2011

The Sense of an Ending | Julian Barnes, 2011

“How often do we tell our own life story? How often do we adjust, embellish, make sly cuts? And the
 longer life goes on, the fewer are those around to challenge our account, to remind us that our life is
not our life, merely the story we have told about our life. Told to others, but—mainly—to ourselves.”

“What you end up remembering isn't always the same as what you have witnessed.”

“History is that certainty produced at the point where the imperfections
of memory meet the inadequacies of documentation.”

“It strikes me that this may be one of the differences between youth and age: when we are young,
we invent different futures for ourselves; when we are old, we invent different pasts for others.”

“I certainly believe we all suffer damage, one way or another. How could we not,except in a world of
perfect parents, siblings, neighbours, companions? And then there is the question on which so much
 depends, of how we react to the damage: whether we admit it or repress it,and how this affects our
dealings with others.Some admit the damage, and try to mitigate it;some spend their lives trying to
 help others who are damaged; and there are those whose main concern is to avoid further damage to
 themselves, at whatever cost. And those are the ones who are ruthless, and the ones to be careful of.”

“The more you learn, the less you fear. "Learn" not in the sense of
academic study, but in the practical understanding of life.”

“We live in time - it holds us and molds us - but I never felt I understood it very well. And I'm not
 referring to theories about how it bends and doubles back, or may exist elsewhere in parallel
versions. No, I mean ordinary, everyday time, which clocks and watches assure us passes regularly:
tick-tock, click-clock. Is there anything more plausible than a second hand? And yet it takes only
the smallest pleasure or pain to teach us time's malleability. Some emotions speed it up, others
slow it down; occasionally, it seems to go missing - until the eventual point when it really does
 go missing, never to return.”

“Yes, of course we were pretentious -- what else is youth for?”

“We thought we were being mature when we were only being safe. We imagined we were
being responsible but were only being cowardly. What we called realism turned out to
be a way of avoiding things rather than facing them.”

“Does character develop over time? In novels, of course it does: otherwise there wouldn't be much
of a story. But in life? I sometimes wonder. Our attitudes and opinions change, we develop new
habits and eccentricities; but that's something different, more like decoration. Perhaps character
resembles intelligence, except that character peaks a little later: between twenty and thirty, say.
And after that, we're just stuck with what we've got. We're on our own. If so, that would explain
 a lot of lives, wouldn't it? And also—if this isn't too grand a word—our tragedy.”

“I know this much: that there is objective time, but also subjective time, the kind you wear on the
inside of your wrist, next to where the pulse lies. And this personal time, which is the true time,
is measured in your relationship to memory.”

“But it’s still the eyes we look at, isn’t it? That’s where we found the other person”

“When you're young - when I was young - you want your emotions to be like the ones you read
about in books. You want them to overturn your life, create and define a new reality. Later, I think,
 you want them to do something milder, something more practical: you want them to support your
life as it is and has become. You want them to tell you that things are OK. And is there anything
wrong with that?”

“This was another of our fears: that Life wouldn't turn out to be like Literature.”

“I had wanted life not to bother me too much, and had succeeded—and how pitiful that was.”

Julian Barnes, The Sense of an Ending, 2011


Investment of Power | Hannah Arendt, 1951

Hermann Glöckner, Faltgrafik 4-30a, 1977

“What imperialists actually wanted was expansion of political power without the foundation of the
 body politic*. Imperialist expansion had been touched off by a curious kind of economic crisis, the
overproduction of capital and the emergence of "superfluous" money, the result of oversaving, which
could no longer find productive investment within national borders. For the first time, investment of
power did not pave the way for investment of money, since uncontrollable investments in distant
countries threatened to transform large strata of society into gamblers, to change the whole capitalist
economy from a system of production to a system of financial speculation, and to replace the profits
of production with profits in commissions. The decade immediately before the imperialist era, the
seventies of the last century, witnessed an unparalleled increase in swindles, financial scandals,
and gambling in the stock market.”

Hannah Arendt, The Origins of Totalitarianism, 1951

*The body politic is a medieval metaphor that likens a nation to a corporation.

Peri/od/ical: Holiday | An American Travel Magazine / Covers 1940s-1960s

1962                                 1957
 1957                               1962
 1960                                        1965
 1953                           1951
 1949                                     1955
 1949                                     1959
1953                           1964
 1965                                  1961
 1948                                    1946

Holiday was an American travel magazine published from 1946 to 1977. The magazine employed
writers such as Truman Capote, Joan Didion, Lawrence Durell, James Michener, John Steinbeck
and E. B. White. The magazine came of age in the Jet Age--a time post-World War II when
Americans were beginning to travel for leisure and joining the jet set was a glamorous aspiration.


Sonnet 58 | Shuntaro Tanikawa, 1953

Herbert List, Park of the Palazzo Orsini, Bomarzo, near Rome, Italy, 1952

It’s distance that makes
mountains mountains.
Looked at closely,
they start to resemble me.

Vast panoramas stop people in their tracks
and make them conscious of the engulfing distances.
Those very distances make people
the people they are.

Yet people can also contain distances
inside themselves,
which is why they go on yearning…

They soon find they’re just places violated by distances,
and no longer observed.
They have then become scenery.

Shuntaro Tanikawa, From 62 Sonnets, 1953

In a Hammock | Paintings by Max Pechstein, 1910

Max Pechstein, Two Girls in a Hammock, 1910
Max Pechstein, Two Girls in a Hammock, 1910
Max Pechstein, Two Girls in a Hammock, 1910
Max Pechstein, Franzi and Her Sister in a Hammock, 1910
Max Pechstein, Two Girls in a Hammock, 1910

Love Letters | Maria Casares & Albert Camus, 1944-1959

Maria Casares and Albert Camus, 1948

“We met, we recognised each other, we abandoned ourselves one to the other. We have lived a love
 of burning, pure crystal. Do you realise what happiness we have, and what has been given to us?"

María Casares, from a letter to Albert Camus, June, 1950

"Tied to one another by the bonds of the earth, by intelligence, heart and flesh, nothing, 
I know, can surprise or separate us."

Albert Camus to Maria Casarès, February 1950

"Whatever may come, you are forever in all my life."

María Casares, from a letter to Albert Camus,  January 1959

Maria Casares and Albert Camus, 1948                                 Maria Casares and Albert Camus

"Perhaps it was necessary that I had to bang my head against life in order
 to return with an insatiable thirst for you and for meaning."

María Casares, from a letter to Albert Camus, December 1944

"I hold you like the first time. I love your heart and all that you are.
When I think of us it seems absurd to not believe in eternity."

María Casares, from a letter to Albert Camus, March 1952

"I have enough love to fill your silence ."

Albert Camus to Maria Casarès, 27 février 1950

"I found with you a life force I’d thought I lost."

Albert Camus to María Casares, August 1951

Maria Casares and Albert Camus

“I kiss my valentine and join the few flowers we have to offer Valentine’s day, to the
one we love. You are the one I love, in front of every spring, and I kiss you deeply,
with all my love.

 Albert Camus to Maria Casarès, February 1950

"The rest of today was bleak,outside of us.."

Albert Camus to Maria Casarès, 1951

"You are the only being that has given me tears."

Albert Camus to María Casares, August 1951

Albert Camus and Maria Casares 

Albert Camus to Maria Casarès

    one o’clock [morning] [june 1944]

Ma petite Maria,

I just came back home, I don’t want to sleep at all, and I have such a great desire to have you close
 to me that I have to sit at my table to talk to you the only way I can. I didn’t dare say to Marcel 
[Herrand] that I didn’t want to go drink his champagne. And you were with so much people ! 
But after a half hour, I had enough, I only needed you. I loved you so much, Maria, this whole 
night, seeing you, hearing your voice that became for me irreplaceable while on my way up to 
Marcel, I found a piece of text for the play. I can’t read it anymore without hearing you, it’s my 
way to be happy with you.

I try to picture what you do, and I ask myself with wonder why you’re not here. I tell myself that
 what would be in the rule, in the only rule that I know, which is that of passion and life, it’s that 
you come back home tomorrow and that we finish together an evening that we would have started
 together. But I also know that this is vain and there is everything else.

But at least don’t forget me when you leave me. Don’t forget either what I told you extensively at 
my place, one day, before everything rushes. That day I told you with the deepest part of my heart
 and I would like, I would like so much that we be to each other like I told you we should be. Don’t
 leave me, I can’t phantom anything worse than losing you. What would I do now without that face
 where everything shakes me, this voice and also this body pressed against me ?

Besides it’s not what I wanted to tell you today. But only your presence here, the need I have of you,
 my thought of this evening. Goodnight, my dear. I hope that tomorrow will come quickly and all the
 other days where you will be more mine than this cursed play. I kiss you with all my strength.



Alphabetarion # The owl | Joseph Von Eichendorff, 1826

"And so, with the ruin of all my hopes,
I sat there up in the tree throughout
the hours of darkness like a night-owl."

Joseph Von Eichendorff, Life of a Good-for-Nothing, 1826

On the Seashore | Rabindranath Tagore, 1912

Maurice Denis, Sand Castle, 1909

On the seashore of endless worlds children meet.
The infinite sky is motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous. 
On the seashore of endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances.

They build their houses with sand, and they play with empty shells. With withered leaves
 they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. Children have their
 play on the seashore of worlds.

They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl-fishers dive for pearls, 
merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again.
They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets.

The sea surges up with laughter, and pale gleams the smile of the sea-beach. Death-dealing 
waves sing meaningless ballads to the children, even like a mother while rocking her 
baby's cradle. The sea plays with children, and pale gleams the smile of the sea-beach.

On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. Tempest roams in the pathless sky, 
ships are wrecked in the trackless water, death is abroad and children play. 
On the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of children.

Rabindranath Tagore, 
Gitanjali (Song Offerings), On the Seashore, 1912


Alphabetarion # Hide | Friedrich Dürrenmatt, 1949

Anna Kövecses, Coloradore - 012

“Whoever wants to hide a big scandal 
is best to stage a small one”

 Friedrich Dürrenmatt, Romulus the Great, 1949

J[A-Z]Z / p1ck ( Annie Ross with the Gerry Mulligan Quartet ‎| Sings A Song With Mulligan!, 1959

Photo: Chuck Stewart / Design: Armand Acosta

Annie Ross with Gerry Mulligan Quartet - This Time the Dream's on Me

Recorded: December 11 & 12, 1957 and September 25, 1958
 New York City / Producer: Richard Bock

Gerry Mulligan - baritone saxophone
Chet Baker  - trumpet
Henry Grimes  - bass
Dave Bailey - drums

Lee Friedlander: Annie Ross, Chet Baker, Gerry Mulligan, 1957


Μανιφέστο / Γιατί κάνω κινηματογράφο; | Σταύρος Τορνές, 1987

Σταύρος Τορνές, Μπαλαμός, 1982

Πέρασαν δέκα χρόνια πού συντάξαμε μαζί με τον Ciriaco Tiso
τούτο το μικρό μανιφέστο. Ακόμα το πιστεύω.


Ο κινηματογράφος Δεν είναι το έργο των Δισεκατομμυρίων.

Ο κινηματογράφος Δεν είναι έργο Αστέρων.

Ο κινηματογράφος Δεν είναι το Θέαμα των πολυεθνικών.

Ο κινηματογράφος Δεν είναι εγγραφή βιντεοταινίας.

Ο κινηματογράφος Δεν είναι έργο της όμορφης φωτογραφίας, του τέλειου πλαισίου, 
της καθαρής και κατά συνθήκη ηχητικής μπάντας της πλούσιας σκηνογραφίας.

Ο κινηματογράφος Δεν υπάρχει χωρίς φιλμ. Αλλά φιλμ υπάρχει μόνο όταν ξεκινά από
την απόφαση βαθιά μέσ' απ' τα σπλάχνα εκείνου που το κάνει και ΟXΙ από την ηλίθια 
αποφασιστικότητα των Προγραμματιστών, Χειριστών της κουλτούρας, Παραγωγών της 
ψωλής, Στελεχών επιχειρήσεων, Λειτουργών διαφόρων, Τραπεζιτών, Γραφειοκρατών, 

Ο κινηματογράφος Είναι τα Δικά μας φιλμ. Ο κινηματογράφος
Είναι η άρνηση του τεχνικισμού και του σημειολογισμού.

Ο κινηματογράφος Είναι ο τόπος που Εσύ και Εγώ γνωριζόμαστε,
 “'Εγώ” και Άλλοι αγκαλιαζόμαστε.

Ο κινηματογράφος Είναι όλα τα έργα που δεν έγιναν αλλά θεάθηκαν εκστατικά
 μέσα στην έκρηξη της Ύπαρξης.

Ο κινηματογράφος Είναι ή απελευθερωτική προσήλωση του Περιθωρίου 
στην αναζήτηση του ατομικού του Κόσμου.

Ο κινηματογράφος Είναι ο χώρος της Κατάρας και της Μέθης. 
Ο κινηματογράφος Είναι αιώνια αναλογία του Είναι.

Ο κινηματογράφος Είναι η Κοινωνία που αναπαράγεται κάτω από μια μοναδική συνθήκη: 
να αφήσει να διαφανεί το Είναι, ο Χρόνος (Κόσμος), πίσω από της πλευρές του Λογισμού.

Ο κινηματογράφος Είναι το σημείο συνάντησης-σύγκρουσης μεταξύ 
του πραγματικού και του αδιανόητου, του φανταστικού και του αδύνατου.

Ο κινηματογράφος Είναι αυτή η Υπόσχεση-Απειλή: 
η επιστροφή του Ασύλληπτου, η τόλμη του Απρόβλεπτου.

Ο κινηματογράφος Δεν είναι οι ταινίες που παίζονται στην τηλεόραοη.

Ο κινηματογράφος Δεν είναι τα δασκαλέματα των ειδικών.

Σταύρος Τορνές, Μάϊος 1987

O Σταύρος Τορνές με την Agnès Varda, στα γυρίσματα της ταινίας ''Nausicaa'', 1971
  Alberto Farassino, Σταύρος Τορνές, Gianni Amico, Jean-Claude Biette, Bernardo Bertolucci,
Φεστιβάλ κινηματογράφου Salsomaggiore, 1981
 Ο Σταύρος Τορνές με το Νίκο Παπατάκη στο φεστιβάλ κινηματογράφου Θεσσαλονίκης, 1986
Σταύρος Τορνές (Polokov), Max von Sydow (Kosnov) και Sandor Eles (Grodin)
 The Kremlin Letter 1970,  John Huston

The Wide Ocean | Pablo Neruda, 1904-1973

Fred Stein, Orchard Beach , New York, 1946

Ocean, if you were to give, a measure, a ferment, a fruit

of your gifts and destructions, into my hand,
I would choose your far-off repose, your contour of steel,
your vigilant spaces of air and darkness,
and the power of your white tongue,
that shatters and overthrows columns,
breaking them down to your proper purity.

Not the final breaker, heavy with brine,
that thunders onshore, and creates
the silence of sand, that encircles the world,
but the inner spaces of force,
the naked power of the waters,
the immoveable solitude, brimming with lives.
It is Time perhaps, or the vessel filled
with all motion, pure Oneness,
that death cannot touch, the visceral green
of consuming totality.

Only a salt kiss remains of the drowned arm,
that lifts a spray: a humid scent,
of the damp flower, is left,
from the bodies of men. Your energies
form, in a trickle that is not spent,
form, in retreat into silence.

The falling wave,
arch of identity, shattering feathers,
is only spume when it clears,
and returns to its source, unconsumed.

Your whole force heads for its origin.
The husks that your load threshes,
are only the crushed, plundered, deliveries,
that your act of abundance expelled,
all those that take life from your branches.

Your form extends beyond breakers,
vibrant, and rhythmic, like the chest, cloaking
a single being, and its breathings,
that lift into the content of light,
plains raised above waves,
forming the naked surface of earth.

You fill your true self with your substance.
You overflow curve with silence.

The vessel trembles with your salt and sweetness,
the universal cavern of waters,
and nothing is lost from you, as it is
from the desolate crater, or the bay of a hill,
those empty heights, signs, scars,
guarding the wounded air.

Your petals throbbing against the Earth,
trembling your submarine harvests,
your menace thickening the smooth swell,
with pulsations and swarming of schools,
and only the thread of the net raises
the dead lightning of fish-scale,
one wounded millimetre, in the space
of your crystal completeness.

Pablo Neruda, 1904-1973
The Wide Ocean

The Angel of the City | Marino Marini, 1948 / Peggy Guggenheim

Marino Marini, The Angel of the City, 1948

“There was also a Marino Marini, which I bought from him in Milan. I went to borrow one for the
 sculpture show, but ended up by buying the only thing available. It was a statue of a horse and rider,
 the latter with his arms spread way out in ecstasy, and to emphasize this, Marino had added a phallus
 in full erection. But when he had it cast in bronze for me he had the phallus made separately, so that
 it could be screwed in and out at leisure.”

“When the nuns came to be blessed by the Patriarch, who on special holy days, went by my house in
 a motorboat, I detached the phallus of the horseman and hid it in a drawer. I also did this on certain
 days when I had to receive stuffy visitors, but occasionally I forgot, and when confronted with this
 phallus found myself in great embarrassment. The only thing to do in such cases was to ignore it.
In Venice a legend spread that I had several phalluses of different sizes, like spare parts, which I
used on different occasions.”

 Peggy Guggenheim, Confessions of an Art Addict, 1979

Marino Marini, The Angel of the City, 1948
 Marino Marini, The Angel of the City, 1948

Prot-a-gonist: Grace Kelly on Vacation | Jamaica - California, 1955-56

Howell Conant: Grace Kelly in Montego Bay, Jamaica, 1955
Howell Conant: Grace Kelly in Montego Bay, Jamaica, 1955
Howell Conant: Grace Kelly in Montego Bay, Jamaica, 1955
Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief (1955)

"I love walking in the woods, on the trails, along the beaches. I love being part of nature.
I love walking alone. It is therapy. One needs to be alone, to recharge one's batteries."

Grace Kelly

Howell Conant: Grace Kelly in Montego Bay, Jamaica, 1955                              Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief (1955)
 Grace Kelly, California, 1955
Grace Kelly, California, 1955
Grace Kelly, California, 1955
Grace Kelly, California, 1955
Howell Conant: Grace Kelly in Montego Bay, Jamaica, 1955
Howell Conant: Grace Kelly in Montego Bay, Jamaica, 1955
Howell Conant: Grace Kelly in Montego Bay, Jamaica, 1955


Alphabetarion # Truth | Georges Bataille

Joanna Piotrowska, Untitled, 2015

“I believe that truth has only one face: 
that of a violent contradiction.”

 Georges Bataille
Violent Silence: Celebrating Georges Bataille

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...