Reading/Tracks
Been busy but I'll leave a few "tracks" (now with the Kindle App on my Nokia I can easily read in every nook and cranny of my life) before getting back to my "real work" (i.e., the work that pays the bills).
From Broch's Sleepwalkers (I'm well into the last chapter, really the last half of the text, but I've wanted for some while to put down the last short chapter of Part II: I love his abrupt endings, especially after a somewhat logorrheic chapter: IMHO, it works):
Here's the entirety of Part II/Chapter IV:
Also, over the last week or so, I've been dipping in (left and right without any particular pattern) to David Ferry's Bewilderment: New Poems and Translations. His poems (and his poems of poems) have been easy to read--and for the most part pleasant reading--while I'm standing, waiting for a door to open, or in transit from Point A to B.
I'll e-inscribe here the dedication poem (I believe to his wife, now deceased):
From Broch's Sleepwalkers (I'm well into the last chapter, really the last half of the text, but I've wanted for some while to put down the last short chapter of Part II: I love his abrupt endings, especially after a somewhat logorrheic chapter: IMHO, it works):
Here's the entirety of Part II/Chapter IV:
When the theatre in Duisburg went bankrupt and both Teltscher and Ilona were once more left destitute, Esch and his wife put almost the whole of what remained of their means into the theatrical business, and soon they had finally lost their money. Yet Esch now secured a post as head book-keeper in a large industrial concern in his Luxemburg home, and for this his wife admired him more than ever. They went their way hand in hand and loved each other. He still sometimes beat her, but less and less, and finally not at all.***
Also, over the last week or so, I've been dipping in (left and right without any particular pattern) to David Ferry's Bewilderment: New Poems and Translations. His poems (and his poems of poems) have been easy to read--and for the most part pleasant reading--while I'm standing, waiting for a door to open, or in transit from Point A to B.
I'll e-inscribe here the dedication poem (I believe to his wife, now deceased):
In Memory of Anne Ferry
You lie in our bed as
if an orchard were
over us.
You are what's fallen
from those fatal
boughs.
Where will we go
when they send us
away from here?
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