Sunday, September 25, 2016

Four Quartets






“We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.”




 



“Humankind cannot bear very much reality.”









“Footfalls echo in the memory, down the passage we did not take, towards the door we never opened, into the rose garden.”










“So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years-
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l'entre deux guerres-
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholy new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate,
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate - but there is no competition -
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.” 






“In my end is my beginning.”
 
T.S. Eliot

Sunday, September 18, 2016

Joseph Roth: To Gustav Kiepenheuer on his fiftieth birthday




I have had to cover many miles. Between the place where I was born, and the towns and villages I have come to in the last ten years in order to dwell in them, and which I have dwelt in only, apparently, to leave them again, lies my life, amenable more readily to spatial than to chronological measurement. The years I have put behind me are the roads I have travelled.




Nowhere, in no parish register or cadaster is there a record of my date of birth or my name. I have no home, aside from the fact that I am at home in myself. Wherever I am unhappy is my home. I am only ever happy abroad. If I leave myself so much as once, I will lose myself. Therefore, I take great care to remain within myself.

I was born in a tiny hamlet in Volhynia, on 2 September 1894, under the sign of the Virgin, with whom my given name of Joseph stands in some vague relation. My mother was a Jewess of strong, earthy, Slavic constitution, she would often sing Ukrainian songs because she was very unhappy (and where I come from it is the unfortunates who sing, not the lucky ones, as in Western countries. That’s why Eastern songs are more beautiful, and anyone with a heart who listens to them will be moved to tears). She had no money and no husband. Because my father, who turned up one day, and whisked her off to the West with him, probably with the sole purpose of siring me, left her in Katowice, and disappeared, never to be seen again. He must have been a strange man, an Austrian scallywag, who liked to spend money, presumably drank, and died insane when I was sixteen. His speciality was melancholy, which I have inherited from him. I never saw him. But I remember when I was four or five, I had a dream of a man in whom I saw my father. Ten or twelve years after that, I first saw a photograph of my father. I had seen the face before. He was the man in my dream.




At the sort of tender age when other children are just learning to walk, I was already going on trains. I came to Vienna early in my life, soon left it, came back, went to the West again, had no money, lived off subventions from well-off relatives and from giving lessons, started to study, was keen and ambitious, an ostentatiously good boy, full of quiet malice and poison, modest out of conceit, jealous of the rich, but incapable of solidarity with the poor. They seemed stupid and clumsy to me. I dreaded any coarseness of expression. It made me very happy when I found in Horace’s odi profanum vulgus an authoritative confirmation of my instincts. I loved freedom. The times I spent with my mother were my happiest. I got up at night, got dressed, and left the house. I walked for three or four days, slept in houses whose state I didn’t know, and with women whose faces I didn’t see, and was curious to see. I roasted potatoes on summer meadows, and on hard autumnal fields. I plucked strawberries in forests, and hung around with a half-grown rabble, and was thrashed from time to time, so to speak, by mistake. Everyone who gave me a thrashing would quickly beg my forgiveness. Because he feared my revenge. My revenge could be terrible. I had no particular affection for anyone. But if I hated anyone, I would wish his death, and was prepared to kill him. I had the best slings, I always aimed for the head, and I didn’t just use stones, but also broken glass and razor blades. I laid traps and snares, and I lay in wait and lurked in bushes. When one of my enemies once turned up armed with a revolver, admittedly without ammunition, I felt humiliated. I started off by flattering him, gradually, in the teeth of my true feelings, made myself his friend, and finally bought the revolver off him, with bullets I had been given by a forester. I persuaded my friend, that the ammunition on its own was much more dangerous than a weapon without ammunition.




Noble feelings came to me later, and not for long. My first noble stirrings were roused in me by a girl, I was in my second semester as a student of German. The girl in question came from Witkowitz. At sixteen, she had fallen prey to an engineer, and got pregnant by him. Luckily, the child she had was stillborn. The engineer didn’t care about her. So she went to Vienna, as a governess with horrible, stupid people. What else could I do, but be noble? I rented a room for the girl, induced her to quit the ghastly blond children in their sailor suits, and decided I would make a live baby with the poor girl, and challenge the engineer. To that end, I sold my coat, and took an advance from a lawyer whose son I was teaching. I travelled to Witkowitz, found the engineer, he arranged to meet me in a café, after he received my blunt little note. He had a pointed black beard, crooked upward-slanting eyebrows, glittering eyes, a fine, brown complexion, slender hands, he reminded me of the devil. On his calling-card it said: Lieutenant of the Reserve. He bought me a cup of coffee, was friendly, smiled, admitted that he slept with the daughters of all his foremen one after the other on principle, but didn’t have time to busy himself with them beyond that. He took me to a brothel, bought me three girls at once, and said he was prepared to turn one of his Witkowitz damsels over to me. He bought me drinks, took me to the station, we embraced as we parted. Unfortunately, He died during the typhoid epidemic of 1916. He was one of my earliest friends.






I got back, the girl had found a new job by now. She wrote me a nice farewell letter, from which it appeared I wasn’t the type for her. Quite rightly, she was still in love with the engineer. Thenceforth, I started looking for women in the Stadtpark, the Volksgarten, the Vienna Woods, and with modesty and fake timidity, tried to win the pity, and then the love, of the mothers of my pupils. I was especially popular with the wives of lawyers, as their husbands had so little time for them. They gave me shirts, underpants, ties, took me with them to their boxes at the opera, in their carriages, and went away with me to Klagenfurt, Innsbruck, and Graz. They were my mothers. I loved them all dearly.





When the War broke out, I lost my pupils one by one. The lawyers joined up, their wives grew moody and patriotic, and began to express a preference for war-wounded. I volunteered for the 21st Jagers. I didn’t want to have to travel third class, to salute incessantly, I was an eager soldier, got to the Line too soon, on the Eastern Front, I reported for cadet school, I wanted to be an officer. I became an ensign. I remained at the Eastern Front till the War ended. I was brave, strict, and ambitious. I decided to stay with the Army. Then came the Revolution. I hated revolutions, but had to make way for them, and, since the last train had just left Shmerinka, I had to march home. I marched for three weeks. Then for another ten days I followed roundabout routes, from Podwoloczysk to Budapest, from there to Vienna, where, because I didn’t have any money, I started to write for the papers. They printed my nonsense. I lived off it. I became a writer.





Soon after, I moved to Berlin – I was forced to go by the love of a married woman and my fear of losing my freedom, which was worth more to me than my uncertain heart. I wrote the stupidest things, and so made a name for myself. I wrote bad books, and became famous. Twice I was turned down by Kiepenheuer. He would have turned me down a third time too, if we hadn’t got to know each other.




We drank schnapps one Sunday. It was bad schnapps, it made both of us sick. Out of sympathy, we became friends, in spite of the difference in our natures, which are such that only alcohol is capable of bridging them. Kiepenheuer is a West-Phalian, you see, while I am an East-Phalian. There hardly exist any greater contrasts than that. He is an idealist, I am a skeptic. He loves Jews, I don’t. He is an apostle of progress, I am a reactionary. He is ageless, I have been old since I can remember. He is turning fifty, I am two hundred. I could have been his great-grandfather, if I wasn’t his brother. I am radical, he is conciliatory. He is polite and vague, I am unjust. He is an optimist, I am a pessimist.




There must be some secret connection between us somewhere. Because sometimes we do agree. It’s as though we each made concessions to the other, but we don’t. Because he doesn’t understand money. That’s a quality we both share. He is the most courtly man I know. So am I. He got it from me. He loses money on my books. So do I. He believes in me. So do I. He waits for my success. So do I. He is certain of posterity. So am I.

We are inseparable; that’s his advantage.

Joseph Roth 
 10 June 1930

Sunday, September 11, 2016

My Last Sigh




 

“I can't help feeling that there is no beauty without hope, struggle, and conquest.”








“Of course, fantasy and reality are equally personal, and equally felt, so their confusion is a matter of only relative importance.”








“As inexplicable as the accidents that set it off, our imagination is a crucial privilege. I've tried my whole life simply to accept the images that present themselves to me without trying to analyze them. I remember when we were shooting That Obscure Object of Desire in Seville and I suddenly found myself telling Fernando Rey, at the end of a scene, to pick up a big sack filled with tools lying on a bench, sling it over his shoulder, and walk away. The action was completely irrational, yet it seemed absolutely right to me. Still, I was worried about it, so I shot two versions of the scene: one with the sack, one without. But during the rushes the following day, the whole crew agreed that the scene was much better with the sack. Why? I can't explain it, and I don't enjoy rummaging around in the cliches of psychoanalysis.”








“Even today, I've no idea what the truth is, or what I did with it.”


Luis Buñuel

Sunday, September 4, 2016

The Radetzky March






 


“That was how things were back then. Anything that grew took its time growing, and anything that perished took a long time to be forgotten. But everything that had once existed left its traces, and people lived on memories just as they now live on the ability to forget quickly and emphatically.”






“There is a fear of voluptuousness that is itself voluptuous, just as a certain fear of death can itself be deadly.”


 
 

“Morning birdsong filled the room. For all his high opinion of birds, privileged among God's creatures, still, deep in his heart, the Emperor did not trust them, just as he did not trust artists.”

Joseph Roth

Sunday, August 28, 2016

Sculpting in Time







“Poetry is an awareness of the world, a particular way of relating to reality.”







“I felt all the time that for the film to be a success the texture of the scenery and the landscapes must fill me with definite memories and poetic associations”




 
 

“My encounter with another world and another culture and the beginnings of an attachment to them had set up an irritation, barely perceptible but incurable-rather like unrequited love, like a symptom of the hopelessness of trying to grasp what is boundless, or unite what cannot be joined; a reminder of how finite, how curtailed, our experience on earth must be”

 
 
 
 
 
“...art must must carry man's craving for the ideal, must be an expression of his reaching out towards it; that art must give man hope and faith. And the more hopeless the world in the artist's version, the more clearly perhaps must we see the ideal that stands in opposition - otherwise life becomes impossible! Art symbolises the meaning of our existence.”


 
 
 
 
“Art is a meta-language, with the help of which people try to communicate with one another; to impart information about themselves and assimilate the experience of others. Again, this has not to do with practical advantage but with realising the idea of love, the meaning of which is in sacrifice: the very antithesis of pragmatism. I simply cannot believe that an artist can ever work only for the sake of 'self-expression.' Self-expression if meaningless unless it meets with a response. For the sake of creating a spiritual bond with others it can only be an agonising process, one that involves no practical gain: ultimately it is an act of sacrifice. But surely it cannot be worth the effort merely for the sake of hearing one's own echo?”

Andrei Tarkovsky

Sunday, August 21, 2016

Concrete






“Very often we write down a sentence too early, then another too late;what we have to do is write it down at the proper time, otherwise it's lost.”









“Whatever condition we are in, we must always do what we want to do, and if we want to go on a journey, then we must do so and not worry about our condition, even if it's the worst possible condition, because, if it is, we're finished anyway, whether we go on the journey or not, and it's better to die having made the journey we're been longing for than to be stifled by our longing.”








“Time destroys everything we do, whatever it is.”

Thomas Bernhard