One has just been sent out as a biblical dove, has found nothing green, and slips back
into the darkness of the ark -- Kafka

Saturday, April 22, 2017

Contrail and Palm


"Clip" from Moravia's "The Conformist"

It was an indifference that denoted not only familiarity, but careless familiarity. In truth she had no name for normality, since she was in it up to her eyes, the way we believe that animals, if they talked, would give no name to nature, being an integral and undivided part of it. But he remained outside, and for him normality was called normality precisely because he was excluded from it and because he felt it to be in such contrast to his own abnormality. To be like Giulia, you had to be born that way, or.…

The door behind him opened and he turned around. Giulia stood before him in a wedding dress of white silk, holding the full veil falling from her head in both hands so that he could admire it.

She said exultantly, “Isn’t it beautiful? Look!”

Saturday, April 15, 2017

Reading: Moravia, Milton, Fred, & Some Parables

Always batting around this and that, looking for new inspiration.

Have been reading mostly Moravia: The Woman of Rome and now The Conformist. Have also dabbled in "side readings" via Fred (where does Trump fit into Fred's primary text: The Apocalypse?), Milton (see below), Jesus Christ (Did Kafka read JC?), and D R Griffin.

Milton (through Lucifer):

The mind is its own place, and in it self
Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.

Day in Santa Barbara (4.14.17)










Morning in Seal Beach (4.13.17)



Friday, March 31, 2017

More Clips (+ a possible "to read") from "Jacob's Room"

"Life is wicked—life is detestable," cried Rose Shaw.

     The strange thing about life is that though the nature of it must have been apparent to every one for hundreds of years, no one has left any adequate account of it. The streets of London have their map; but our passions are uncharted. What are you going to meet if you turn this corner?


Possible "to read": Tom Jones. Fielding.


It is a strange reflection that by travelling two days and nights you are in the heart of Italy. Accidental villas among olive trees appear; and men-servants watering the cactuses. Black victorias drive in between pompous pillars with plaster shields stuck to them. It is at once momentary and astonishingly intimate—to be displayed before the eyes of a foreigner. And there is a lonely hill-top where no one ever comes, and yet it is seen by me who was lately driving down Piccadilly on an omnibus. And what I should like would be to get out among the fields, sit down and hear the grasshoppers, and take up a handful of earth— Italian earth, as this is Italian dust upon my shoes.