Christina Tudor-Sideri

But at the same time, this limit is the condition of my desire, and if such limit were erased then this would be Death. This will be Death. It will. At the end, all this would end very badly.

- Jacques Derrida reprinting in 1997 what he said in 1979

Indeed... especially on a cold night.

YouTube video by LeonardCohenVEVO Leonard Cohen - I'm Your Man (Official Live in London 2008)

Sometimes all you need is Leonard Cohen youtu.be/cZOTxQ75NK0?...

When the phrase ‘never any end to Paris comes to mind’ I think not of Vila-Matas, but of Emma Bovary, who wanted to die but also wanted to live in Paris, though in my case ‘living in Paris’ is just writing. To paraphrase Marguerite Duras, one cannot die as long as one is writing.

“I am tired (…) and there is never any silence.”

Andrei Tarkovsky, February 1972

“We enjoyed the impossible climax of disoriented beings (…) Who cannot do otherwise than pluck up their deaths at the root of their lives, etymologically.”

“It is possible to swim in a waterless sea if one is not afraid of the rock protruding,” she writes.

Lilac petals for the void... One must indeed furnish oblivion.

it you persevere and read the book which has read the book which reads the one which lies open in the lovers' lap and if through the mediation of the book you bring yourself ever more closely, without pleasure ever expir-ing, to other laps which ardour still causes to shiver through the privilege of love which rules over the circle of memory, you will read then how the kiss moves from mouth to mouth and makes the canvas stir where a thousand lovers are trembling on the edge of lips so much desired. And now lay the kiss. There where the kiss alights, take the book. And now close your eyes for a moment, let light fall and look at these who punctuate for a time the dancing wall of Substitutions, then look at the book: it's us. This book is our etymology. Is the reading of the most precious body, which nowadays cannot be found… Tomb(e), Hélène Cixous; tr. Laurent Milesi

No one better than Hélène Cixous to quiet the echo of a difficult day

in the end—

Jean-Luc Nancy, Shattered Love (tr. Lisa Garbus, Simona Sawhney)

Three in the morning. Patočka open, unread for hours. A childhood copy of Rilke’s Elegies. Allergies. Pressure behind the eyes. Antihistamines. Elliptical, nocturnal, inward—the coming hour. “Does the cosmic space we dissolve in taste of us?”

ULYSSES' GAZE by Theo Angelopoulos Harvey Keitel Erland Josephson Maia Morgenstern

“And time will be whole again.”

“There... she is turning her head... But he cannot make out her features because darkness descends. He merely feels that he never knew a face that was nearer and dearer to him, more kind and more beloved than hers in his entire, destitute, short, mad life.”—Hoffmanniana, Tarkovsky

Yes

THE DREAMED ONES INGEBORG BACHMANN AND PAUL CELAN A FILM BY RUTH BECKERMANN WITH ANJA PLASCHG AND LAURENCE RUPP

At night—

“Nothing is more beautiful than the eternity of this moment, when in my nostrils I carry loss, the perfume of ruin.”

—Gabriela Melinescu

At night, Malina and the ruins of time. “We still have our whole life, says Ivan.”

Indeed it doesn’t

“And now it’s raining and the sea is silent; she powders her face and plays dead.”

(Alexandra Târziu)

:) Richard

and Cioran again: Life is a story Time tells itself

Howard: life is very long memory is endless and you—you are immortal after all

Bachmann: life is reading a page that you have read

Cioran: life is a twirl in the void

In case you missed it this morning...

At night, a return to Cioran.

“With age, you become used to your own terrors, you undertake nothing more in order to be disengaged from them, you become quite bourgeois in the Abyss.”

(tr. Richard Howard)

“I do not know how to rid the world of evil, or whether one is simply supposed to endure it. But you are there and are having an effect, and the poems have an effect of their own and help to protect you—that is the answer and a counterbalance in this world.”

— Ingeborg Bachmann to Paul Celan, 1958

Vessel by Christina Tudor-Sideri   I want you to feel this the way time moves through me not as a line but as a trembling interval a breath before the word a pulse after it leaves I live in this pause my lu...

In @stonecirclereview.bsky.social, a poem I wrote as I was finishing the manuscript for An Absence of Sea—a poem of flesh and hours, about the porousness of the human and time experienced as sensation rather than sequence.

stonecirclereview.com/vessel/

POEM 302: "Vessel" by Christina Tudor-Sideri (@dreamsofbeing.bsky.social)

"I linger in thresholds
doors ajar
always almost
never fully
haunted
by the girl I was
by those who vanished
shadows persistent
shivering against me
I press back
even as I fade"

stonecirclereview.com/vessel/

#Poem #Poetry

A Celanian night: the world is gone, I have to carry you.