proustian-dream

[proustian-dream]

Ya no recuerdo mis sueños. Mi vida es por eso peor.

[proustian-dream]

Paul Hegarty, The Hallucinatory Life of Tape

[proustian-dream]

Paul Hegarty, The Hallucinatory Life of Tape

[proustian-dream]

Paul Hegarty, The Hallucinatory Life of Tape

[proustian-dream]

2018, Denmark, via Janushoved, cassette.

Me acuerdo de aquel título espectral de una película de Philippe Garrel: Elle a passé tant d'heures sous les sunlights...

[proustian-dream]

2019, Denmark, via Janushoved, cassette.

Trilogía de Copenhague.

[proustian-dream]

1990, France/Spain, via Toracic Tapes, cassette.

From Des Dessins Si Étranges...

[proustian-dream]

Soluciones imaginarias, jamás soluciones racionales.

[proustian-dream]

No hay coherencia en mi vida, y no tiene por qué existir. Yo sólo quiero hacer de esto una hermosa locura, un experimento errante, con inicios sin conclusiones, con picos de intensidad sublime, con aventuras sin la obligación de ser realizadas, pero llenas de la ironía necesaria de quien se sabe en la intemperie.

[proustian-dream]

Isidore Isou, Commentaire sur Van Gogh n°19, 1985.

Oil on canvas.

[proustian-dream]

Isidore Isou, Méditation esthétique sur Soutine n°3, 1983.

Oil on canvas.

[proustian-dream]

There's a pebble on a beach

A wave you can't reach

If your heart isn't there

I don't care...

[proustian-dream]

Una conversación con una gran amiga sobre poemas es suficiente para levantarme el ánimo.

Recordar escrituras, plantear ideas y teorías durante la marcha del diálogo, retratar a nuestros autores favoritos, configurar imágenes y metáforas sin intención alguna, proyectar textos en conjunto. Todo eso y nada más, como para anular, en el acto, la falsa separación entre nuestra vida y la literatura.

[proustian-dream]

Isidore Isou, Introduction à une nouvelle poésie et à une nouvelle musique

[proustian-dream]

Es probable que la condición de poeta lleve, entre otras cosas, a adoptar el rol de fantasma. Uno de los trabajos forzados de este fantasma podría consistir en girar incesantemente en torno de un bosque en el que no logra introducirse, como si el bosque fuera un lugar vedado.

Alejandra Pizarnik, "Relectura de Nadja, de André Breton"

[proustian-dream]

I was curious and I was skint. For a long time I lived all but moneyless because it was possible then. There were apartments and cabins then where you arrived by word of mouth. Each was an experiment about how to live. I was studying living by doing it. I left through the door to gather things then came back. I fucked when I wanted to and didn’t when I didn’t. I walked my animal. I cooked, I wrote or didn’t. I stole and I worked. I consistently refused to know my place. I read all the books, took notes. I was called pretentious. I stayed or moved on accordingly. I sometimes slept illicitly. I tended toward water. I read in the bath. What was I loyal to? I was loyal to the stolen thriving. I was loyal to her disappearance. Also I was loyal to the history of the invisible thriving, its stories and documents. I still feel religious about it, even erotic. My language is perceptual not expressive. That is my function—to describe the ceremony of the invisible thriving. Part of perception is peripheral, a thrill. Time points in all directions like a body. Description transmits.

Lisa Robertson, "The Thriving"

[proustian-dream]

An important part of my accruing sense of knowing Chateaubriand has to do with his overuse of diversion and digression, as if he is at an intimate dinner party where most of his interlocutors have once been lovers, and have long shared the intricacies of their inner lives. He will never, never, get to the point. The point is not to arrive, since being the story, everyone knows the story already, but to amusingly decorate the approach. He is an excursionist. And what is the difference between diversion and digression? Is this an interesting question? And what of the inner lives of lost worlds? Are they transmitted only by manners and style? This is, I think, the social form of the late style discussed so compellingly by Edward Said. “Late style is what happens if art does not abdicate its rights in favour of reality” he wrote of Genet’s final book. It’s a style of splintering vestiges, repeating remnants, irreconcilable documents, peculiar amalgams. It transmits a technique, not a truth. It continues in a setting of hopelessness, but without resolution or synthesis. Aghast, it rigorously scorns the transcendent. 

Lisa Robertson, "On Spleen"