printed-ink:

Remy Charlip, from It Looks Like Snow

flirer: Nikolai Tesla, reading by the light of the Tesla Coil 

(via bygoneyears)

It’s possible, in a poem or a short story, to write about commonplace things and objects using commonplace but precise language, and to endow those things— a chair, a window curtain, a fork, a stone, a woman’s earring— with immense, even startling power. It is possible to write a line of seemingly innocuous dialogue and have it send a chill along the reader’s spine— the source of artistic delight, as Nabokov would have it. That’s the kind of writing that most interests me.

pavorst:

Abandonned library in Napoli, par Barry Cawston

(via buried-denmark)

via New England Review, nereview.com:

At NPR Books, Eleanor Henderson talks about the influence of Middlebury professor Robert Cohen:

As an undergrad at Middlebury, I was one of the many students who hung on Cohen’s every word in class, but I suspect I was the only one to hunt down every word he’d written — ordering back issues of Story, Glimmer Train and New England Review, smuggling them hungrily into my dorm room like the desserts I’d sneak from the dining hall.

I read his stories again and again, then swallowed them whole when, to my delight, they were released in book form, and later I taught them to my own students.

Professor Cohen is Sweatervest’s academic advisor as well!

whitemystere:

Annie Hall - Woody Allen , 1977

(via jesuisperdu)

1. The ring slides back on the finger. 2. The house of the body is love. 3.The deposit on the hall is refundable. 4. Waterproof means won’t get wet. 5. All doctors are alike. 6. The tap water is safe. 7. No news is good news. 8. The body is love’s regret. 9. A cycle is twenty-eight days. 10. More about regret. 11. Flame-retardant means won’t catch fire. 12. I will always love you, etc. 13. The ventilation system is adequate. 14. Shakespeare was a) Marlowe b) an asshole c) the artist formerly known as Prince. 15. Rug burn is a necessary evil. 16. The ring can be resized. 17. The flotation device will save us. 18. These lines are for office use only. 19. The treatment won’t leave scars. 20. Courtesy is contagious. 21. The test results are valid. 22. Gone means might come back.

jesuisperdu:

hiroshige

For a piece in our latest issue, “The Blinding of Ahkiko” by David Croitoru

jesuisperdu:

joshua whitelaw

Harp & Altar: An Excerpt from The Signals, by Rob Stephenson ›

The poetry of the first decades of the twenty-first century will be a hybrid creation, as fiction has already become. We may be heading, with terrible slowness, toward new earthquakes of form. In this uncertain future, our children will watch as the poet asleep in an armchair meets up on the operating table with the black desert bird that feeds on the parasites of camels.

I listen to the boxcars coupling, the exhaled crush like air
squeezed through a ragged metal hole or wind unwinding

in an abandoned drainage pipe, like the one we used to hide in
when we were kids, drawing cocks dripping tears with a stolen

lipstick, rippling vaginas with a black magic marker, scrubbing
our names onto the pocked cement with broken coal, dusk making

a cameo at one end of the tunnel. A rough thunder. A sluggish
crash. The undercarriage screech. If I close my eyes I can see

blue sparks the steel wheels make as they grind the rails. The smell
of oil mixed with dust. Weeds between the ties bend low, blown

sideways in the gust, then pop back up and stand there like nothing
happened. Saddest sound in the universe: coupling. Like loneliness

itself. Something about the yielding machinery and the stuff of bodies
hurtling through space. Nothing emptier than an empty boxcar, doors

cranked open on both sides, the blurred landscape rushing through,
warehouses, backyards, slipping by.

(via orchardes)