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We ask to little of an image when we reduce it to its mere appearance.

We ask to much of it when we seek actual reality in it.

What we need is to discover in it a capacity to make us rethink all these things.

George Didi-Huberman


Written by patrick_cahill

November 24, 2009 at 7:29 pm

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T.S Eliot

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LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Written by patrick_cahill

October 19, 2009 at 4:28 pm

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conversation among the ruins.

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Through portico of my elegant house you stalk
With your wild furies, disturbing garlands of fruit
And the fabulous lutes and peacocks, rending the net
Of all decorum which holds the whirlwind back.
Now, rich order of walls is fallen; rooks croak
Above the appalling ruin; in bleak light
Of your stormy eye, magic takes flight
Like a daunted witch, quitting castle when real days break.

Fractured pillars frame prospects of rock;
While you stand heroic in coat and tie, I sit
Composed in Grecian tunic and psyche-knot,
Rooted to your black look, the play turned tragic:
Which such blight wrought on our bankrupt estate,
What ceremony of words can patch the havoc?

Sylvia Plath

Written by patrick_cahill

October 17, 2009 at 12:06 pm

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I knew she wasn’t English.

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I knew she wasn’t English as she spoke it far too well.

Her grammar was goodly,

Verbs as they should be,

and her slang was bang on the bell.

As I watched their language barrier clang and bang.

I couldn’t hear, hear or see, England.

Bow, bo, then crumble into the sea.

Peter Doherty

Written by patrick_cahill

May 2, 2009 at 11:48 am

The Madman.

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YOU ASK ME how I became a madman. It happened thus: One day, long before many gods were born, I woke from a deep sleep and found all my masks were stolen, – the seven masks I have¬†fashioned and worn in seven lives, – I ran maskless through the crowded streets shouting, “Thieves, thieves, the cursed thieves.”

Men and women laughed at me and some ran to their houses in fear of me.

And when I reached the market place, a youth standing on a house-top cried, “He is a madman.” I looked up to behold him; the sun kissed my own naked face for the first time. For the first time the sun kissed my own naked face and my soul was inflamed with love for the sun, and I wanted my masks no more. And as if in a trance I cried, “Blessed, blessed are the thieves who stole my masks.”

Thus I became a madman.

And I have found both freedom and safety in my madness; the freedom of loneliness and the safety from being understood, for those who understand us enslave something in us.

But let me not be too proud of my safety. Even a Thief in a jail is safe from another thief.

Kahlil Gibran

Written by patrick_cahill

March 30, 2009 at 7:26 pm