lemonlights

rafaelisimo: Samuel Beckett finished watt a few days ago, with...

Sun, 19 May 2013 02:12:47 -0400

Samuel Beckett

finished watt a few days ago, with its permutative language

the staves - “icarus” three sisters from britain....

Sat, 18 May 2013 10:55:16 -0400

the staves - “icarus”

three sisters from britain. think tight harmonies, and the type of blend that can only come from family. (from ca. september 2012)

A fortnight, then seven months of France.

Fri, 17 May 2013 13:00:00 -0400

A fortnight, then seven months of France.

refluent: Lone Summit (by PhilWestcott) I know, I know this is...

Fri, 17 May 2013 10:00:29 -0400

refluent:

Lone Summit (by PhilWestcott)

I know, I know this is Alaska, but it’s a recolored Erytheia, too. (cf. Autobiography of Red)

beardsleyjones: Every single thing about this. missing...

Fri, 17 May 2013 09:55:09 -0400

beardsleyjones:

Every single thing about this.

missing camping & peoplelessness (solitude)

let night last.

Fri, 17 May 2013 09:54:02 -0400

let night last.

"[Margaret Fuller] was known to perform the ancient form of divination in which a passage of Virgil..."

Thu, 16 May 2013 23:17:44 -0400

“[Margaret Fuller] was known to perform the ancient form of divination in which a passage of Virgil selected at random is assumed to reveal what lies ahead.”

- Rite of Spring by Christopher Benfey | NYRblog | The New York Review of Books

In what is a fantastic article, Christopher Benfey relates Dickinson, Emerson, Thoreau, and Fuller without mentioning transcendentalism or the American sublime—the focus is instead, interestingly, on passages from the Aeneid.

afternoon forest walk, chicago, may 2013

Thu, 16 May 2013 00:01:06 -0400

afternoon forest walk, chicago, may 2013

kanyewesanderson: Hotel Chevalier / All Falls Down And then I...

Thu, 16 May 2013 00:01:00 -0400

kanyewesanderson:

Hotel Chevalier / All Falls Down

And then I did.

morning seltzer, chicago, may 2013

Wed, 15 May 2013 23:53:00 -0400

morning seltzer, chicago, may 2013

Kahn-esque architecture, covered in greenery. À la Eero...

Tue, 14 May 2013 23:21:00 -0400

Kahn-esque architecture, covered in greenery. À la Eero Saarinen’s plans for Morse and Stiles at Yale. Summer home plans? Yes. Green Box | iGNANT.de

afternoons like today’s seem to cut against ambitions—they...

Tue, 14 May 2013 23:13:00 -0400

afternoons like today’s seem to cut against ambitions—they make life feel simple and about hours spent lying upon grass and the violet-colored flowers that have carpeted the shade behind my house. suddenly, books reveal their physicality, that they turn dirty and wet and require careful, careful attention (as if each page is a dandelion seed). almost finished with on being blue.

Train Announcements : The New Yorker

Tue, 14 May 2013 12:30:23 -0400

Train Announcements : The New Yorker:

I see you, Frank Stockton. You’re killing me, Bob Powers.

theartofgooglebooks: Pressed flower. From p. 89 of The First...

Mon, 13 May 2013 17:28:05 -0400

theartofgooglebooks:

Pressed flower.

From p. 89 of The First Year of Greek by James Turney Allen (1917). Does not include metadata indicating library of origination or date of digitization (but does include Stanford library artifacts).

time for ancient greek.

silents: kahve by Susan Y. Zhang on Flickr. I realized on...

Thu, 09 May 2013 21:22:00 -0400

silents:

kahve by Susan Y. Zhang on Flickr.

I realized on Tuesday that I had broken my coffee addiction entirely. I had somehow associated drinking the burnt type they make in Yale dining halls with feeling sick, and had weaned myself off by drinking half cups and then sleeping through breakfast—and sleep is really what I wanted, in the end. Summertime means days when I will walk five miles, though, and walking is not something that the school year trains me to do. And suddenly, my glasses have become necessary for resolving the street into an image and pages have turned into pavement—although it’s not that I have quit reading or anything drastic—and I crave caffeine. I crave it. I miss it. Yet mostly, mostly I just want to fall asleep and sleep.

The New Yorker has matched quotations from The Great Gatsby with...

Thu, 09 May 2013 11:03:31 -0400

The New Yorker has matched quotations from The Great Gatsby with vintage New Yorker advertisements. This one, in particular, depicts the type of progress American society should have made. Creating demand, one picture at a time.

Beautiful Little Fools: New Yorker Ads from the ‘Great Gatsby’ Era : The New Yorker

Earlier this semester, Eli and I translated...

Wed, 08 May 2013 20:21:00 -0400

Earlier this semester, Eli and I translated ‘L’Après-Midi d’un Faun’, and we would make PV jokes, since that—to an extent—was how we translated. We’d switch stanzas, and edit each other’s, and I’d email him a word for word for him to render more poetic, since I was trying to finish the poem before our deadline, and was trying to remain true to the French as much as possible. And it felt good to do, if only for the type of piece you do in a week.

Done with Tolstoy | Humanities

After Catullus

Tue, 07 May 2013 17:59:18 -0400

After Catullus:

a poem by Matthew Rohrer, courtesy of Margaret. And the last line, and the spoon one, and I almost want to say there isn’t one I don’t like, may it may be the euphoria of being finished finished finished!

halves

Mon, 06 May 2013 02:50:38 -0400

As the nights of this semester have dwindled, I have had an increasing feeling of sucking off raspberries from my fingertips one by one, until my fingers are covered in the residue of sweetness and are ready to be cleansed by water. There are a few other metaphors for the feeling: watching the sands of an hourglass when the grains seem to speed up; the same rush of rainwater into sewers once you clear away autumn leaves; and that feeling—of suddenly, without quite realizing how, that you’re watching something end.

On Tuesday, packing my winter clothes into a duffel for Paris, I realized that at some point I had crossed a halfway moment in my time at Yale. Already, too, at least a month or two ago. My temporal center of gravity shifted, and cast a surreality on the days that followed. At a party, my friend Max pointed to studies, the pull of finals, the incessant drive to do and do and do—because somehow, that will make you successful. There have been days this week when I have wished I could ask a friend to sit for a portrait, or that I could add forty hours to my day to read and to write and write and write.

Yet I am all but finished with this semester, and so full of fears and joy for the summer and the fall that I trust that I will have all of that time—and more, and I will make something real of it. I may be more than halfway through with my undergraduate time at Yale, but I have not even begun this interim adventure. And I am so excited. And I am so excited. And I am so excited.

"Here is a confession of how poems were written which would do as a definition of poetry just as well..."

Fri, 03 May 2013 00:14:03 -0400

“Here is a confession of how poems were written which would do as a definition of poetry just as well as “emotion recollected in tranquillity”‑and which the young poet might equally well take to heart as a practical rule. Drink a pint of beer, relax, go walking, think on nothing in particular, look at things, surrender yourself to yourself, search for the truth in your own soul, listen to the sound of your own inside voice, discover and express the vraie verité.
It is probably true that all this is excellent advice for poets.”

- W. K. Wimsatt, Jr. & Monroe C. Beardsley, “The Intentional Fallacy”