Friday, November 30, 2012

Why oh why do I love Paris

  Fall, a Friday diaspora,
  light now letting every-
  one set his own stave,

André Kertész 

Cole Porter

Thursday, November 29, 2012

Tales of the lighter load: of course we saw this coming


  The New York Times
  unearthed this ele-
  gant transport and 
  we are down for an
  entire flotilla of
  svelte and slip'ry
  vessels of discov-

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

If only he had signalled I might go with him to Crete

Scott Martin

          A basket of quail burst open in
          the bazaar. They did not try to
          escape but spread out slowly like
          spilt honey.

This is the second time, in comparatively few days, when we have watched Mr Durrell at play with a gerund he seems to have been attracted to, an image of the passive state as active, in his use of the time-extracting verb, to spread. It's almost clumsy, to be bringing this up, because his way with it struck me before, and here again, as exquisite. Who can wish to be the one to admire a gesture so natural that its citation is only the highest threat to pleasure?

I am not sure that it's even possible to say, spilt honey, without turning heads at the spectacle in anxious wonder. I do not care to tamper with the last Saturday commute, acknowledging how still the stain of vacancy extends. But, very well: supposing this simile to be a touchstone of his style, it certainly helps to explain to me why Durrell's imagery does not fade. If I have not done my part to share this wonder, possibly I can give warning in his well spilt words. He loved this act of language. 

And, Alexandrines.

i-ii  R. Holbrooke

Lawrence Durrell
Faber & Faber, Ltd, 2000©