Das Hofmannsthal Jahrbuch zur europäischen Moderne:

wie Samt, grün, Gedankenerregend

Danke, Marie

Blixa immer wieder

Where is Prince Myshkin?

I remember wishing, in a way, for this -- and the little celebrations I can now witness seem in spite of that to taunt my memory and the foreknowledge I had then. The thought that it's an unhappy mixture of the fictional siblings Varvara and Gavrila that still directs some of those inner dialogues -- this thought is distasteful, but: what to do? I'll not apply pragmatic rules here.

I am aware that there is a palliative strain of egotism that comes out meekly on occasion: its talent lies in registering the gravity and levity of a situation and judging a person's emotional state (always the other person's, only ever ironically one's own!) without displaying superiority. Without displaying. But then this isn't simply high-minded pity! I would like to hope and perhaps do.

This is -- well, that's the "issue" at hand I suppose. What? It's always a confused, broken light. The one you see in dark hallway light up minimally by the still darkish reflections in the mirror in the other room. The music in the other room too. The silhouettes almost glow.

Different, but connected:
It seems laudable, worthy, good to extend oneself to help another, even if that simply means saying to oneself with the assumption that one's thoughts translate into behaviour, posture, and even (often silent) interaction: "Oh, I hope she feels better soon. Oh, that sad look -- I wonder why she's not happy to be alive? Why she doesn't fall, smiling, into this blissful morning light?" Yes, it's usually women who strike me in this way. But maybe that's simply a reflection of the limitations of my sight.

And so one's thoughts wax pseudo-life-affirming and absurd, the hint of Empfindsamkeit lending them a temporary literary integrity, but it's short, this gift of time. Isn't it funny? Then these serious thoughts too are light.

The joy is always just a little elusive, a little thin too, and that weird distance that comes to light when one knowingly pities is there too when one knowingly admires, appreciates, and enjoys with reservation. Isn't it also a pity, directed at oneself?

Boarisch

Versuch's mal laut zu lesen

Direkt vor dir liegt das Verlangte
Als ob es für dich bestimmt wäre;
nur hinter dem Glas --
doch nicht nur das --
hinter dem Inhalt der Luft und Wein
ist das am genausten gespürten Eindruck kausal
-- und ein Schimmerndes dazu.
Das Augenmerk ist zu lang darauf gerichtet worden,
dass Augenermüdung folgt
wie ein sich vor sich hin singendes Gemälde das verwirrt nicht mehr weiß, was es ist, welcher Gattung es gehört

Der Wink der Nachahmung spukt darin wie immer
Es schwimmt die Wiederherstellung
des Abschiednehmens im Gruß, im Prosten,
im Teich zwischen dem Erlebten und dem Beobachtenden

A bird is flying like a god
ja das willst du auch -- dass der Vogel als Vogel fliegt