Willie Anne Wright, My Lensless Imaging / Pinhole Photographs and Photograms: 1972-2002 (2003)
Sunday, July 19, 2015
She knows that the greatest source of their power, a power that seems to endure, is that they have silenced the voices. And not just the voices of political dissent but also the voices of the artists - writers, composers, painters, playwrights. All of them bound to a lifetime of artistic servitude. She believes that Osip was right when he declared that in their country poetry was held in such high esteem that a poem could cost you your life. They had come to know the bitter truth of that.
David Park, The Poets' Wives (2014)
Saturday, July 18, 2015
He learns that language is power, in law, politics, poetry, church or state. A preacher must dominate his congregation the way some folk command animals, for man is like any other beast: sometimes you have to shout to get his ear, sometimes you must pin him down like a snake, or smack him on the nose like a disobedient mutt. But above all a preacher must speak in his own voice, forged of his own experience, for the Holy Spirit is the agent of the original, not the counterfeit, and that is why the Devil is jealous of the Almighty: the Devil is limited to imitation of what is, unable to create what is not. He is a trickster who can throw his voice but never once strikes an original note.
Peter Murphy, Shall We Gather At The River (2013)
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
Photographs: Sean Scully
Essay: Colm Toibin
I was moving into a world of nature governed by wind and weather, sharp and soft lines of horizon, disappearing perspectives, high skies and great banks of cloud, and a world of people governed by careful politeness, watchful slow glances, and deliberate understatement.Colm Toibin, Sean Scully: Walls of Aran (2007)
Monday, July 13, 2015
The war now was for him a jumble of random images that haunted his sleeping self -- the Alps in the moonlight, a propeller blade flying through the air, a face pale in the water. Well, good luck to you then. Sometimes this overwhelming stench of lilacs, at other times a sweetly held dance tune. And always at the end of the nightmare there was the inescapable end itself, the fire and the sickening hurtle of the fall to earth. In the nightmare we wake ourselves before the awful end, before the fall, but Teddy had to be woken by Nancy's shushing, by her cradle hand soothing him, and he would stare into the darkness for a long time wondering what would happen to him if she failed to wake him one night.
He had been reconciled to death during the war and then suddenly the war was over and there was a next day and a next day and a next day. Part of him never adjusted to having a future.
Kate Atkinson, A God In Ruins (2015)