Saturday, February 1, 2020

Saturday commute clxxix: No rush

The idea that Pasternak knew these 
lines, and had perhaps carried 
them around in his head for twenty-
five years, really thrilled me,
more than any review I've ever read.

I think the parrotlike way in which
people say there is no 'communica-
tion' nowadays is rubbish really;

communication is having the faith
that if you do your utmost someone
somewhere does and will understand
this and sometime somewhere you 
will know it.

Stephen Spender

Matthew Spender
A House in St John's Wood
  In search of my parents
Farrar, Straus & Giroux

Wednesday, January 29, 2020

Origins of Wednesday cix: An acquittal worse than the crimes

                   I've just been clearing my ears
                   from the proceedings in the US
                   Senate, and I must say, I'm sor-
                   ry I bothered. What posturing I
                   have heard, has been enough to
                   persuade me that the staggering
                   leap into denial on display, is
                   grossly worse than the betrayal
                   of the national interest under
                   prosecution. The President's
                   Party gives every sign of being
                   captivated by a perversion giv-
                   ing ordinary Constitutional in-
                   terpretive casuistry a halo of
                   innocence: oh, we forgot to tell
                   you, we've always believed in
                   absolute Executive power. How
                   comical it now seems in retro-
                   spect, to have seized power on
                   the pretexts of tiny government.

                   Credit an Annunciation arriving
                   under deprivation of legality
                   and reason, for exposing to this
                   Party the true, latent, revealed 
                   rights of its disorderly organs.
                   It's bathed in shining awe, to be
                   wringing no longer its hands, but
                   its own neck, out on Fifth Avenue.