He is perhaps the purest writer who has ever written. There is nothing there but the writing itself.
— Burroughs on Beckett
He is perhaps the purest writer who has ever written. There is nothing there but the writing itself.
— Burroughs on Beckett
Posted in Beckett, William Burroughs
The farther he goes the more good it does me. I don’t want philosophies, tracts, dogmas, creeds, ways out, truths, answers, nothing from the bargain basement. He is the most courageous, remorseless writer going and the more he grinds my nose in the shit the more I am grateful to him. He’s not fucking me about, he’s not leading me up any garden path, he’s not slipping me a wink, he’s not flogging me a remedy or a path or a revelation or a basinful of breadcrumbs, he’s not selling me anything I don’t want to buy – he doesn’t give a bollock whether I buy or not – he hasn’t got his hand over his heart. Well, I’ll buy his goods, hook, line and sinker, because he leaves no stone unturned and no maggot lonely. He brings forth a body of beauty. His work is beautiful.
— Pinter on Beckett
I am outside the truth; nothing human can take me there.
— Simone Weil (via here)
Posted in Simone Weil
— You wanted to talk with me, doctor?
— Have you been to see Mrs Vogler yet, Sister Alma?
— No, not yet.
— Let me explain her situation and the reason why you have been hired to care for her. Mrs Vogler is an actress, as you know. During her last performance of Electra, she fell silent and looked around as if in surprise. She was silent for over a minute. She apologized afterwards, saying she had got the urge to laugh. The next day the theatre rang, as Mrs Vogler had not come to rehearsals. The maid found her still in bed. She was awake but did not talk or move. This condition has now lasted for three months. She has had all sorts of tests. She’s healthy both mentally and physically. It’s not even some kind of hysterical reaction. Any questions, Sister Alma?
— Bergman, Persona
Posted in Bergman
Sometimes I go for days without speaking to a soul. I think, ‘I should make that call’, but I put it off. Because there’s something pleasurable about not talking. But then I love talking, so it’s not that. But sometimes it can be nice. It’s not like I sit here philosophising, because I’ve no talent for that. It’s just this thing about silence that’s so wonderful.
— Bergman
Posted in Bergman
Experience is in the first place a struggle against the spell in which useful language holds us.
— Battaille (via here)
Death is what conceptual language represents negatively, like a hole, a void, but poetic speech can invert this, make it positive. […] Since thanks to poetry the world is closer, and its unity more perceptible, we feel more part of that unity – like the leaf of a tree, even if it falls off the branch, in an instant that is eternal. So what is death? But I have to add that all this is true only in theory. Poetry would be just that – transcending death – if it were not inaccessible; we can only try to approach it. That is why one should not call oneself a poet. It would be pretentious. It would mean that one has resolved the problems poetry presents. Poet is a word one can use when speaking of others, if one admires them sufficiently. If someone asks me what I do, I say I’m a critic, or a historian.
— Yves Bonnefoy (via here)
Posted in Yves Bonnefoy
Rabbi Isaac Luria warned his pupils:
We do not have permission to reflect on reality before the emanation of the world, and we are not allowed to compare it in any way to known forms and images. We only speak in a parabolic manner to satisfy the need of comprehension, but a wise person will understand by himself that this does not reflect an actual representation of divine reality.
— Moses Jonah, in The Kabbalistic Tradition (ed. and tr. A Unterman)
Posted in Kabbalah
Perhaps there is a kind of speech different to that which adds noise to the world. That subtracts silence from that noise, as you would draw with your finger on a condensated window.
To speak by subtraction – to let silence sound and speak thereby … is there a kind of writing that unwrites the written? A white writing, a writing blanched; or is it the other way round: a black page slipped beneath black ink?
— Spurious
Posted in Spurious
I can see that my story lacks depth. I find it exhausting to have to describe things.
— Lispector, The Hour of the Star (tr. G. Pontiero)
Posted in Lispector