Forgive this confused reverie, or should I say, this reverie of confusion.
Both heir and secessionist from Stevens’ monolithic presence, and determined to out-derange the surrealists’ involutions of reason, Christle’s verse stands out as ballast and vanguard for the oneiric work of her generation
“Avant-pastoralists do not shy away from or whitewash the disunities, contradictions, deceptions, and dangers of post-industrial reality”
“Now we realize, as we stand victorious over this subdued world, that we never ceased to move. Time’s true arrow did not die but twist; became Time’s helter-skelter. A hurricane grew, blowing a wind more fierce than we had ever known. Many remained impervious, placid in the confines of the gentle centre. But many others were flung into the violent gyre to join those strangers we despised; the world swallowed in Utopia.”
Perhaps it is hardest for Miles to sleep because he is journeying into experience, that dreams for him are like a mortar shell, or a mosquito, or a startled kangaroo, or the outermost bands of a storm.
That which cannot be said must be passed over in silence: thoughts on setting Thomas Bernhard to music
My introduction to the author whose work would destroy a year and a half of my life, and will most likely poison many years more, began the evening of a horrific party filled with so-called artists of the sort with which London is littered.
If one were to plot a spectrum of artistic media according to the degree to which an observer feels as though he or she is participating in the origination of the narrative, videogames would rank among the most dynamic, the most participatory.
“While science fiction provides us with its awkward, often graceless, technologically advanced futures, we arrive, haltingly, at our past, surprised that we have actually, as a race, lived through science fiction.”
It makes sense. After all, without a demon, how else to make the top of your head blow right off?
Sunday is re-cast from the traditional day of rest into a thinly-veiled extension of the capitalist workweek—a controlled illusion of repose so that the clock can be reset back to Monday.
Irish alternative and experimental poetry is much more visible a decade into the twenty-first century than it was at the century’s turn, when the debate about the status of the Irish avant-garde was being vigorously thrashed out on the pages of journals and internet forums.
“The joke never fails to amuse. That said, certain conditions must be met.”
I could never forget the CGI graphic of a slim slow-motion stick—a poky cocktail prop—sailing through the poorly drawn canals of what was supposed to represent the inside of—everyone’s? anyone’s?—intestines as it slid awkwardly around the body’s bends like a panicked child down a waterslide.
“Their forms, colors and motifs conform to a sacred language.”
“Invent the effects of some creature exceedingly desired by the mind: after spotting it once, it would absorb into its own a splendid fixity every which thought capable to come after it;”