“I’ve got to face it. I don’t react the way I used to. I don’t weep properly anymore. Something has changed inside me, as it has around me. The streets are deserted. There’s scarcely anyone left in the cities, or the countryside, or the forests. The sky is clearer now, but still without colour. Years of endless wind have swept away the stench of mass graves. Some sights still upset me, others not. I seem to be on the verge of a sob, but nothing comes. I’ll have to go and see the tear-fixer.”

Antoine Volodine

(со страницы moscow)

full metal alchemist right before my physics final

What would it be like to be inside an imagist’s image? Pound’s Tristan, his 1916 attempt at a Noh drama, suggests an answer: it would be a condition where nothing is solid, nothing is determinite — a condition at the knife-edge, at the metamorphic quick, where the subway train is just about to turn into the black bough. Pound’s play is a theatrical presentation of life inside Wagner’s Tristan chord: a chord that demands harmonic resolution yet remains suspended, incapable of resolving, incapable of construing itself, at once creeping upward and diminishing ever further into its own private hypospace — an endless frustration. Because the whole spectacle is one image, the whole action is only the arbitrary spinning-out of a multi-dimensional stasis into a metamorphosis.

—Daniel Albright, ‘Early Cantos I-XLI’

i had a dream that i i was run over by a car and when i woke up i cried because it was so perfect