Qu'est-ce qu'un cendrier iii: The President's assonant embrace

                  We can give a man his reason for

                  decency but we can not surrender

                  ours. If there is an exhaustion

                  in America with the spectacle of

                  sanctimony's cruelty, it has not

                  come from the spectacle of satir-

                  ic sexuality. It has come because

                  genocide was seen, and judged to

                  be too high a price for schaden-

                  freude. I know this and you know

                  this; and while we might delight

                  in the President's endearing sim-

                  iles and smile at simple recitals

                  from our history, no one can turn

                  a page of it with a greeting card

                  obliviousness, to those who fell

                  too near and too well to have lost.

                  But the President's negligent con-
                  descensions lost even this excuse
                  of flattery, in his grotesque mis-
                  constructions of the Equal Protec-
                  tion Clause. We are likely to have
                  to visit them, given the gravity
                  his enemies are only too glad to
                  heap upon a rhetorical spectacle
                  of advanced laziness.

                  For now, it is simply urgent to 
                  affirm that there would be no con-
                  stituency to be so lazily blessed, 
                  if the government of the United
                  States had not elected itself re-
                  peatedly on its unprecedented and
                  unequalled suffering.

          

ashtray in glass with poinsettia

  photography Laurent

Yet more good advice from the toffs

soyez rare

equine estate of the Aga Khan

anonymous sand

I thought I'd see "Le Cercle Rouge" this evening

   You and I might watch
   Montand, knocking over
   Mauboussin, in a cow-
   boy shot imagined by
   an outlaw we admire,
   once with the maquis, 
   whose hero gave us
   Queequeg and Typee.

               We might stay up

               'til dawn, stub-

               bing out a cigar-

               ette, good-bye;

               but you and I

               would know that

               we had seen a

               kind of kiss.

        

Jean-Pierre Melville

Le cercle rouge

1970

i   Gucci, 2013

ii  Bastiaan van Gaalen

       Balmain, 2013

Miles without a present to myself

I hadn't bought myself a present in

so long, I was feeling quite gloom-

ily out of practice. What to do,

what to do, what to do, I found my-

self muttering, almost audibly, can

you believe, rotating down the bal-

cony in a final settling of my cuff

upon my instep, its gentle break be-

lying all the labour in its fitting.

Should I venture down to Assouline,

I found myself mourning, now self-

doubtful of my avarice, and mime an-

other purchase of the swells; I won-

dered if they'd recognise this ennui

for what it is, or if I'd have to

book a table mid-town for 4, just

to open up my parcel to the gasp of

every waiter wafting Floris from his

waist.

What's become of all my shop-ping sprees' epiphanies of purpose, amidst entire indus-tries devoted to specifying what they must entail. I sense I need another villa to comply with these ukases, if not at least to blog of them, discreetly to the monde. Sat-urday used to be more generous with its hours, when the spec-tacle of my pleasures could go almost unnoticed - except to those who shared them, without the effrontery of enterprising Baedekers, dossiers purporting to exhibit delight in the dross of their own image. It's enough to incline one to disinvest in the imagination, and any thought of the city.

Physics on my mind ii

She was still looking at him

thoughtfully. She seemed to

be listening without really

hearing. Then she said, 'Vik-

tor Pavlovich, your face 

looks quite different today.

Has something good happened?'

What makes you think that?

'Your eyes have changed,' she

said. 'It must be your work..'

What do you see in my eyes

then?

'Your eyes are always full of

suffering - but not today.'

Marya Ivanovna, I don't under-

stand it. I feel I've done the

most important thing in my life

..

A minute later, walking down the

dark street, .. a cold draught

blew from each of the dark en-

trances; when he came to a cross-

roads the wind lifted up the tail

of his coat. Viktor shrugged his

shoulders and frowned. Would his

mother never know, would she nev-

er know what her son had just

achieved?

Vasily Grossman

Life and Fate

ibid.

Tim Rupp x Bruce Weber

The new theory

     The new theory was not derived from experience.

     Viktor could see this quite clearly. It had a-

     risen in absolute freedom; it had sprung from

     his own head. The logic of this theory, its chain

     of reasoning, was quite unconnected to the exper-

     iments conducted by Markov in the laboratory. The

     theory had sprung from the free play of thought.

It was this free play of thought - which seemed quite detached from the world of experience - that had made it possible to explain the wealth of experimental data, both old and new. The experiments had merely been a jolt that had forced him to start thinking. They had not determined the content of his thoughts. All this was quite extra-ordinary. His head had been full of mathematical relationships, differ-ential equations, the laws of higher algebra, number and probability theory .. 

It was not mathematics that reflected the world; the world itself was a projection of differential equations, a reflection of mathematics.             

And his head had also been full of readings from different instruments, of dotted lines on photographic paper that showed the trajectories of particles and the fission of nuclei.

                                                                                                                              And there had even been room in his head for the rustling of leaves, the light of the moon, millet porridge with milk, the sound of flames in the stove, snatches of tunes, the barking of dogs, the Roman Senate, Soviet Information Bureau bulletins, a hatred of slavery, and a love of melon seeds.

                All this was what had given 

                birth to his theory; it had 

                arisen from the depths where 

                there are no mathematics, no 

                physics, no laboratory data, 

                no experience of life, no 

                consciousness, only the 

                inflammable peat of the 

                subconscious.

Vasily Grossman

1905 - 1964

Life and Fate

Éditions l'Age d'Hommes, 1980©

Translation, Robert Chandler, 1985

New York Review Books, 2006©

It would be better, coming from you

       Is it possible, that we some-

       times rate the informing bur-

       dens of love with higher ap-

       preciation of our intensity,

       than of the relationship we

       select as its beneficiary?

       We like to think, as I would

       hope here, that our obliga-

       tions are in equilibrium: we

       care as much for our inter-

       locutor as for any subject.

       Here, I think, we are less

       complacent, you and I, than

       many who have cared for us.

       Now, then. November is past

       without event. We are secure

       in our protection from insan-

       ity on the Right; and it is

       time to fix his government.

       Will you tell him, or shall

       I, that his President is a

       war criminal; and that his

       birthright is shriveling as

       we speak, in high crimes and

       misdemeanors against his in-

       heritance of due process and

       mankind's, of the just war?

       Nothing takes care of itself

       on this scale, and nothing

       interests us more, than get-

       ting him clear of our debts.

Saturday commute lxxvi: the blue pants solution

  

    Is any Saturday ever wholly 

    lost, do you suppose, which 

    will allow a fellow to go a-

    bout in blue pants?