"Maybe the private life wasn't forever. Maybe everyone got it for a little while and then spent the rest of their lives remembering."
Ann Patchett, Bel Canto
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
harlowe gold
Malinconia, ninfa gentile
Malinconia, ninfa gentile,
la vita mia consacro a te;
I tuoi piaceri chi tiene a vile,
ai piacer veri nato non è.
Fonti e colline chiesi agli dei;
m'udiron alfine, pago io vivrò,
né mai quel fonte co' desir miei
né mai quel monte trapasserò.
Melancholy, gentle nymph,
I devote my life to you.
One who despises your pleasures
Is not born to true pleasures.
I asked the gods for fountains and hills;
They heard me at last; I will live satisfied
Even though, with my desires, I never
Go beyond that fountain and that mountain
- Vincenzo Bellini
while my knowledge of opera is resoundingly scant, i found the verse behind Bellini's aria too beautiful to pass up, so i went searching for other versions of the translation, and chanced upon one that didn't seem as.. ossified?
this is aghrivaine's handiwork:
Melancholy, gentle nymph,
I consecrate my life to you;
He who your pleasures despises,
To true pleasures is not born.
Mountains and hills I begged of God;
At last I was heard, and I will live content,
Never beyond the hills did I desire to go,
Never beyond the mountains will I go past.
much preferred.
it turns out aghrivaine's quite a character (i do love his phrasing!) - he describes his journal as"Quotidian
Loveliness: Observations of the everyday, the sublime, and the sublimely everyday."
these accidental meanderings really are the best, aren't they?
i was introduced to Malinconia, Ninfa Gentile while reading Ann Patchett's Bel Canto. the book deals with a bunch of high profile political/wealthy figures who find themselves kidnapped. along the way, they develop an uncertain relationship with their kidnappers, Stockholm Syndrome if you will.
music, or to be specific, opera, is unquenchably meshed with the book (hence, Bel Canto), with a main anchor in the form of Roxane Cross, a soprano whose aural prowess is tenderly described in many recurring moments, but particularly memorable in these:
"He looked instead to Roxane Cross, whose face he had tirelessly studied in program notes and CD inserts. Her shoulders were sloping. Her neck, perhaps, could be longer. A longer neck? He cursed himself. What was he thinking? None of it mattered. No one could see her objectively anyway. Even those who saw her for the first time, before she had opened her mouth to sing, found her radiant, as if her talent could not be contained in her voice and so poured like light through her skin...
..they were so taken by the beauty of her voice that they wanted to cover her mouth with their mouth, drink in. Maybe music could be transferred, devoured, owned. What would it mean to kiss the lips that had held such a sound?
... because of her singing, they all went away feeling moved, feeling comforted, feeling, perhaps, the slightest tremors of faith."
- Ann Patchett, Bel Canto
though several elements in the plot remained highly questionable, Ms.Patchett has enabled even the most mundane of subjects to stretch out, an organic, languid undulation of potent emotions - and that, for me, matters the most. i'll be posting more excerpts from the book to be sure.
words of the day: quotidian, soliloquy, ossify
Malinconia, ninfa gentile,
la vita mia consacro a te;
I tuoi piaceri chi tiene a vile,
ai piacer veri nato non è.
Fonti e colline chiesi agli dei;
m'udiron alfine, pago io vivrò,
né mai quel fonte co' desir miei
né mai quel monte trapasserò.
Melancholy, gentle nymph,
I devote my life to you.
One who despises your pleasures
Is not born to true pleasures.
I asked the gods for fountains and hills;
They heard me at last; I will live satisfied
Even though, with my desires, I never
Go beyond that fountain and that mountain
- Vincenzo Bellini
while my knowledge of opera is resoundingly scant, i found the verse behind Bellini's aria too beautiful to pass up, so i went searching for other versions of the translation, and chanced upon one that didn't seem as.. ossified?
this is aghrivaine's handiwork:
Melancholy, gentle nymph,
I consecrate my life to you;
He who your pleasures despises,
To true pleasures is not born.
Mountains and hills I begged of God;
At last I was heard, and I will live content,
Never beyond the hills did I desire to go,
Never beyond the mountains will I go past.
much preferred.
it turns out aghrivaine's quite a character (i do love his phrasing!) - he describes his journal as"Quotidian
Loveliness: Observations of the everyday, the sublime, and the sublimely everyday."
these accidental meanderings really are the best, aren't they?
i was introduced to Malinconia, Ninfa Gentile while reading Ann Patchett's Bel Canto. the book deals with a bunch of high profile political/wealthy figures who find themselves kidnapped. along the way, they develop an uncertain relationship with their kidnappers, Stockholm Syndrome if you will.
music, or to be specific, opera, is unquenchably meshed with the book (hence, Bel Canto), with a main anchor in the form of Roxane Cross, a soprano whose aural prowess is tenderly described in many recurring moments, but particularly memorable in these:
"He looked instead to Roxane Cross, whose face he had tirelessly studied in program notes and CD inserts. Her shoulders were sloping. Her neck, perhaps, could be longer. A longer neck? He cursed himself. What was he thinking? None of it mattered. No one could see her objectively anyway. Even those who saw her for the first time, before she had opened her mouth to sing, found her radiant, as if her talent could not be contained in her voice and so poured like light through her skin...
..they were so taken by the beauty of her voice that they wanted to cover her mouth with their mouth, drink in. Maybe music could be transferred, devoured, owned. What would it mean to kiss the lips that had held such a sound?
... because of her singing, they all went away feeling moved, feeling comforted, feeling, perhaps, the slightest tremors of faith."
- Ann Patchett, Bel Canto
though several elements in the plot remained highly questionable, Ms.Patchett has enabled even the most mundane of subjects to stretch out, an organic, languid undulation of potent emotions - and that, for me, matters the most. i'll be posting more excerpts from the book to be sure.
words of the day: quotidian, soliloquy, ossify
Friday, August 19, 2011
treading waters
The Sartorialist
i am really enjoying the Stockholm batch of photos from the Sartorialist lately.. there's something in their water.
there's a deftness in their succinct ensembles, a fondness for old sneakers (don't i know it), fantastic hair, and an uncanny knack for proportions - cue the lady in #2; a well-played twosome of navy and aubergine hues, trousers cropped at the ridiculously right level and out pops those Prada spring 2007 sandals i'd so admired! is it natural to be particularly fascinated with her extra long navy sleeves? a jaunty cap swooshes off the entire composition, winsomely.
i don't know that girl reading, but i know the spirit.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
equinox
"Maurice opened his hand. Luminous petals appeared in it.
'You care for me a little bit, I do think,' he admitted, 'but I can’t hang all my life on a little bit. You don’t. You hang yours on Anne. You don’t worry about whether your relation with her is platonic or not, you only know it’s big enough to hang a life on. I can’t hang mine on to the five minutes you spare me from her and politics.'"
Maurice, Edward Morgan Forster
'You care for me a little bit, I do think,' he admitted, 'but I can’t hang all my life on a little bit. You don’t. You hang yours on Anne. You don’t worry about whether your relation with her is platonic or not, you only know it’s big enough to hang a life on. I can’t hang mine on to the five minutes you spare me from her and politics.'"
Maurice, Edward Morgan Forster
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
reprieve
i have been besotted with Claymore, a Japanese manga, for a couple of years now. the above character is Cassandra, who is nicknamed Cassandra the Dust Eater for her unique fighting style.
consider Cassandra the Vaccum Cleaner lol. kudos to Memphis for the chuckles!
P.S.
Claymore is a wonderful series should anyone care to take it up - i guarantee you'll be hooked.
hanging on for dear life
blelow is a page that struck me while reading E.M. Forster's Maurice.
"The old man rambled ahead. One ought to be good-kind-brave: all the old advice. Yet it was sincere. It came from a living heart.
'Why?' he interrupted. 'Grandpapa, why?'
'The light within-'
'I haven't one.' He laughed, lest emotion should master him. 'Such light as I had went out six weeks ago. I don't want to be good or kind or brave. If I go on living I shall be - not those things: the reverse of them. I don't want that either; I don't want anything.'
'The light within-'
Maurice had neared confidence, but they would not have been listened to. His grandfather didnt, couldn't understand. He was only to get 'the light within - be kind', yet the phrase continued the rearrangement that had begun inside him. Why should one be kind and good? For someone's sake - for the sake of Clive or God or the sun?
But he had no one.
No one except his mother mattered and she only a little. He was practically alone, and why should he go on living? There was really no reason, yet he had a dreary feeling he should, because he had not got Death either; she, like Love, had glanced at him for a minute, then turned away, and left him to 'play the game'. And he might have to play as long as his grandfather, and retire as absurdly."
*
this is a snap i took of Kenny and Karen's (the owners of BooksActually) copy of Maurice at their An Ode to Penguin exhibition a few weeks back. i really liked this cover as compared to the modern versions; too ostentatious. i was ridiculously happy when i managed to procure Maurice for myself at my favourite Bras Brasah haunt - with the exact same cover!
Maurice has proven to be a brave companion, one to keep by one's side. i'm looking out for the film version next, and perhaps another book by E.M. Forster - A Room with a View and Where Angels Fear to Tread, perhaps? aren't the names beautiful?
i'm grasping at this, at Maurice, at the stacks of books, at this blog; desperately. it's somewhat cathartic but it's not enough; i'm hanging on for dear life as it is.
"The old man rambled ahead. One ought to be good-kind-brave: all the old advice. Yet it was sincere. It came from a living heart.
'Why?' he interrupted. 'Grandpapa, why?'
'The light within-'
'I haven't one.' He laughed, lest emotion should master him. 'Such light as I had went out six weeks ago. I don't want to be good or kind or brave. If I go on living I shall be - not those things: the reverse of them. I don't want that either; I don't want anything.'
'The light within-'
Maurice had neared confidence, but they would not have been listened to. His grandfather didnt, couldn't understand. He was only to get 'the light within - be kind', yet the phrase continued the rearrangement that had begun inside him. Why should one be kind and good? For someone's sake - for the sake of Clive or God or the sun?
But he had no one.
No one except his mother mattered and she only a little. He was practically alone, and why should he go on living? There was really no reason, yet he had a dreary feeling he should, because he had not got Death either; she, like Love, had glanced at him for a minute, then turned away, and left him to 'play the game'. And he might have to play as long as his grandfather, and retire as absurdly."
*
this is a snap i took of Kenny and Karen's (the owners of BooksActually) copy of Maurice at their An Ode to Penguin exhibition a few weeks back. i really liked this cover as compared to the modern versions; too ostentatious. i was ridiculously happy when i managed to procure Maurice for myself at my favourite Bras Brasah haunt - with the exact same cover!
Maurice has proven to be a brave companion, one to keep by one's side. i'm looking out for the film version next, and perhaps another book by E.M. Forster - A Room with a View and Where Angels Fear to Tread, perhaps? aren't the names beautiful?
i'm grasping at this, at Maurice, at the stacks of books, at this blog; desperately. it's somewhat cathartic but it's not enough; i'm hanging on for dear life as it is.
Friday, August 5, 2011
one to another
a vote for the gentle light
burned senseless by other people’s constant
depression,
I pull the curtains apart,aching for the gentle light.
it’s there, it’s there
somewhere,
I’m sure.
oh, the faces of depression, expressions
pulled down into the gluey dark.
the bitter small sour mouths,
the self-pity, the self-justification is
too much, all too much.
the faces in shadow,
deep creases of gloom.
there’s no courage there, just the desire to
possess something––admiration, fame, lovers,
money, any damn thing
so long as it comes easy.
so long as they don’t have to do
what’s necessary.
and when they don’t succeed they
become embittered,
ugly,
they imagine that they have
been slighted, cheated,
demeaned.
then they concentrate upon their
unhappiness, their last
refuge.
and they’re good at that,
they are very good at that.
they have so much unhappiness
they insist upon your sharing it
too.
they bathe and splash in their
unhappiness,
they splash it upon you.
it’s all they have.
it’s all they want.
it’s all they can be.
you must refuse to join them.
you must remain yourself.
you must open the curtains
or the blinds
or the windows
to the gentle light.
to joy.
it’s there in life
and even in death
it can be
there.
— Charles Bukowski
i often think i have little affinity with poems; too arcane, too cryptic, almost chaotic - but now and then, i'm pleasantly reminded that it may be otherwise, as exampled in Mr.Bukowski's A Vote for the Gentle Light. i adore the name. today at least, an accidental meandering has led me to something beautiful and true.
burned senseless by other people’s constant
depression,
I pull the curtains apart,aching for the gentle light.
it’s there, it’s there
somewhere,
I’m sure.
oh, the faces of depression, expressions
pulled down into the gluey dark.
the bitter small sour mouths,
the self-pity, the self-justification is
too much, all too much.
the faces in shadow,
deep creases of gloom.
there’s no courage there, just the desire to
possess something––admiration, fame, lovers,
money, any damn thing
so long as it comes easy.
so long as they don’t have to do
what’s necessary.
and when they don’t succeed they
become embittered,
ugly,
they imagine that they have
been slighted, cheated,
demeaned.
then they concentrate upon their
unhappiness, their last
refuge.
and they’re good at that,
they are very good at that.
they have so much unhappiness
they insist upon your sharing it
too.
they bathe and splash in their
unhappiness,
they splash it upon you.
it’s all they have.
it’s all they want.
it’s all they can be.
you must refuse to join them.
you must remain yourself.
you must open the curtains
or the blinds
or the windows
to the gentle light.
to joy.
it’s there in life
and even in death
it can be
there.
— Charles Bukowski
i often think i have little affinity with poems; too arcane, too cryptic, almost chaotic - but now and then, i'm pleasantly reminded that it may be otherwise, as exampled in Mr.Bukowski's A Vote for the Gentle Light. i adore the name. today at least, an accidental meandering has led me to something beautiful and true.
Monday, August 1, 2011
yearn
BARBARA:
"People languish for years with partners who are clearly from another planet. We want so much to believe that we’ve found our other. It takes courage to recognise the real as opposed to the convenient. When I was young, I had such a vision of myself. I dreamt I’d be someone to be reckoned with, you know, in the world. But one learns one’s scale. I’ve such a dread of ending my days alone."
*
BARBARA:
"People like Sheba think they know what it is to be lonely, but of the drip, drip of long-haul, no-end-in-sight solitude, they know nothing. What it’s like to construct an entire weekend around a visit to the launderette. Or to be so chronically untouched that the accidental brush of a bus conductor’s hand sends a jolt of longing straight to your groin. Of this, Sheba and her like have no clue."
-Patrick Marber, Notes on a Scandal (adapted from the eponymous novel by Zoë Heller)
it hits me straight to the core. i must confess that i've neither read Ms.Heller's book nor the film adaptation, but they've become a priority after this.
thank you for the introduction, jieqiang.
i was listening to It's A Fire by my favourite band, Portishead, when i received the quotes. i'm quite aware that it's an overload of melancholy, but it's one of those days that hang around you like a flogged albatross.
It's a fire
These dreams they pass me by
This salvation I desire
Keeps getting me down
Portishead
"People languish for years with partners who are clearly from another planet. We want so much to believe that we’ve found our other. It takes courage to recognise the real as opposed to the convenient. When I was young, I had such a vision of myself. I dreamt I’d be someone to be reckoned with, you know, in the world. But one learns one’s scale. I’ve such a dread of ending my days alone."
*
BARBARA:
"People like Sheba think they know what it is to be lonely, but of the drip, drip of long-haul, no-end-in-sight solitude, they know nothing. What it’s like to construct an entire weekend around a visit to the launderette. Or to be so chronically untouched that the accidental brush of a bus conductor’s hand sends a jolt of longing straight to your groin. Of this, Sheba and her like have no clue."
-Patrick Marber, Notes on a Scandal (adapted from the eponymous novel by Zoë Heller)
it hits me straight to the core. i must confess that i've neither read Ms.Heller's book nor the film adaptation, but they've become a priority after this.
thank you for the introduction, jieqiang.
i was listening to It's A Fire by my favourite band, Portishead, when i received the quotes. i'm quite aware that it's an overload of melancholy, but it's one of those days that hang around you like a flogged albatross.
It's a fire
These dreams they pass me by
This salvation I desire
Keeps getting me down
Portishead
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