I not only debar a too definite planet from any role in my story— from the role every dot and full stop should play in my story (which I see as a kind of celestial chart)—I also refuse to have anything to do with those technical prophecies that scientists are reported to make to reporters.
I insist that at three or four our bodies obscurely disliked their clumsy conjunction, while our minds did not question its normalcy. Then, before we could have become mentally aware of its drawbacks, physical intuition discovered means of tempering them, and thereafter we hardly gave them a thought.
When, in the course of her receding glide, she came exactly in front of his window, Konstantin, Kostya, Kostenka, thrice kissed with gusto the palm of his hand, but his salute passed unnoticed: with rhythmical waves of her handkerchief, she floated away.
Outside the window, swelling, flying, a joyous barking sound approached by agitated jolts. In a wink the square of black night in the window opening filled and came aboil with solid, boisterous fur.
Was it she who had placed that note in his jacket?
It was. She had been unable to face departure if he was to remain fooled, deceived, betrayed. She added, in naive brackets, that she had been sure he always desired her, they could talk afterwards. Je suis à toi, c’est bientôt l’aube, your dream has come true.
If the Past is perceived as a storage of Time, and if the Present is the process of that perception, the future, on the other hand, is Dot an item of Time, has nothing to do with Time and with the dim gauze of its physical texture. The future is but a quack at the court of Chronos. Thinkers, social thinkers, feel the Present as pointing beyond itself toward a not yet realized ‘future’ — but that is topical utopia, progressive politics.
”The mind, my friend’s mind, is baffled, as I was saying, by something dreadfully strainful and irksome in the machinery of the change from one position to another, from east to west or west to east, from one damned nymphet to another—I mean I’m losing the thread of my tale, the zipper of thought has stuck, this is absurd—”
The laconic style of the assignation led him to suspect a humiliating practical joke, yet he succumbed to the summons—and rightly so: a light crunch of footfalls detached itself from the even rustle of the night.
I can visualize her, by proxy, as she stands in the middle of the station platform, where she has just alighted, and vainly my ghostly envoy offers her an arm that she cannot see.
Oh, she bore it gamely enough—with a kind of dazed cheerfulness Once, however, quite suddenly she started to sob in a sympathetic rail way carriage. “The dog,” she said, “the dog we left. I cannot forget the poor dog.”
Who is she? A heliotype diva, broken free? Or the runaway daughter of a swaggering, bilious lord?
Established, too, was the solid fleshiness of his chin, the bronze of his jowls, and a feature that had already become the common property of all the cartoonists in the world and almost automat-really brought off the trick of resemblance—a thick wrinkle across his whole forehead—the fatty sediment of thought, of course, rather than thought’s scar.
Everyone was drifting to the area where the ski-jumping competition had begun. The site consisted of a steep descent merging halfway down into a snowy platform, which ended abruptly, forming a right-angled projection.
When I turned on the light there was no one in the armchair…. No one!… Nothing was left but a wondrously subtle scent in the room, of birch, of humid moss….
Francis Picabia (1879-1953) - Transparence, N/D
V. Sereni
Isamu Noguchi “Ooi Kojo” for Bonniers , c. 1950
Wether it was a one-off sculpture or design for mass production there’s such an...
No hawk by fanzinepaper on Flickr.
The Conversation by Quentin Blake.
Found here.
