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inspiration

from Hermann Hesse’s ‘The Glass bead game’

‘Thus those struggles for the “freedom” of the human intellect likewise “happened,” and subsequently, in the course of the aforementioned Age of the Feuilleton, men came to enjoy an incredible degree of intellectual freedom, more than they could stand. For while they had overthrown the tutelage of the Church completely, and that of the State partially, they had not succeeded in formulating an authentic law they could respect, a genuinely new authority and legitimacy. Ziegenhalss recounts some truly astonishing examples of the intellect’s debasement, venality, and self-betrayal during that period.

We must confess that we cannot provide an unequivocal definition of those products from which the age takes its name, the feuilletons. They seem to have formed an uncommonly popular section of the daily newspapers, were produced by the millions, and were a major source of mental pabulum for the reader in want of culture. They reported on, or rather “chatted” about, a thousand-and-one items of knowledge. It would seem, moreover, that the cleverer among the writers of them poked fun at their own work. Ziegenhalss, at any rate, contends that many such pieces are so incomprehensible that they can only be viewed as self-persiflage on the part of the authors. Quite possibly these manufactured articles do indeed contain a quantity of irony and self-mockery which cannot be understood until the key is found again. The producers of these trivia were in some cases attached to the staffs of the newspapers; in other cases they were free-lance scriveners. Frequently they enjoyed the high-sounding title of “writer,” but a great many of them seem to have belonged to the scholar class. Quite a few were celebrated university professors.

Among the favorite subjects of such essays were anecdotes taken from the lives or correspondence of famous men and women. They bore such titles as “Friedrich Nietzsche and Women’s Fashions of 1870,” or “The Composer Rossini’s Favorite Dishes,” or “The Role of the Lapdog in the Lives of Great Courtesans,” and so on. Another popular type of article was the historical background piece on what was currently being talked about among the well-to-do, such as “The Dream of Creating Gold Through the Centuries,” or “Physico-chemical Experiments in Influencing the Weather,” and hundreds of similar subjects. When we look at the titles that Ziegenhalss cites, we feel surprise that there should have been people who devoured such chitchat for their daily reading; but what astonishes us far more is that authors of repute and of decent education should have helped to “service” this gigantic consumption of empty whimsies. Significantly, “service” was the expression used; it was also the word denoting the relationship of man to the machine at that time.

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‘Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one’s ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.’

‘ The reason I hadn’t washed my clothes or my hair was because it seemed so silly. I saw the days of the year stretching ahead like a series of bright, white boxes, and separating one box from another was sleep, like a black shade. Only for me, the long perspective of shades that set off one box from the next had suddenly snapped up, and I could see day after day after day glaring ahead of me like a white, broad, infinitely desolate avenue. It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it. I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.’

‘I brought it up next to the smudgy photograph of the dead girl. It matched, mouth for mouth, nose for nose. The only difference was the eyes. The eyes in the snapshot were open, and those in the newspaper photograph were closed. But I knew if the dead girl’s eyes were to be thumbed wide, they would look at me with the same dead, black, vacant expression as the eyes in the snapshot.’

‘I thought the most beautiful thing in the world must be shadow, the million moving shapes and cul-de-sacs of shadow. There was shadow in bureau drawers and closets and suitcases, and shadow under houses and trees and stones, and shadow at the back of people’s eyes and smiles, and shadow, miles and miles and miles of it, on the night side of the earth.’

‘The Bell jar’ Sylvia Plath

From ‘We’, by Yevgeny Zamyatin:

‘And then to myself: Why is this beautiful? Why is dance beautiful? Answer: because it is unfree motion, because the whole profound meaning of dance lies precisely in absolute esthetic subordination, in ideal unfreedom. And if it’s true that our forebears abandoned themselves to dance at the most exalted moments of their lives (religious mysteries, military parades), it means only one thing: the instinct of unfreedom is organically inherent in man from time immemorial, and we, in our present life are only consciously… ‘

‘Simply by turning this handle, any of you can produce up to three sonatas an hour. Yet think how much effort this had cost your forebears. They were able to create only by whipping themselves up to fits of ‘inspiration’- an unknown form of epilepsy.’

‘She wore the fantastic costume of the ancient epoch: a closely fitting black dress, which sharply emphasized the whiteness of  her bare shoulders and breast, with that warm shadow, stirring with her breath, between … and the dazzling, almost angry teeth…

A smile- a bite- to us below. Then she sat down and began to play. Something savage, spasmodic, variegated, like their whole life at that time- not a single trace of rational mechanical method…

Yes, epilepsy, a sickness of the spirit, pain… Slow sweet pain- a bite- and you want it still deeper, still more painful. Then, slowly, the sun. Not ours, not that bluish, crystal, even glow through glass bricks, no- a wild, rushing, scorching sun- and off with all your clothing, tear everything to shreds’

‘we, however, know that dreams are a serious psychic disease.’

Although I don’t have any relation to print design, I’m really fond of it, obsessed with fonts, lines, margins and proportions. Perfectly done pages please me immensely and I always seek the ones with ideal types and layouts where everything is done with great accuracy.

‘Medea:
I pray never to have a happy life that is painful to me
nor wealth that eats away at my heart’
‘Messenger:
The royal princess is dead just now
a victim of your poisons and her father, Creon, is dead too.
Medea:
That’s wonderful news. You will have my eternal gratitude and I will call you my friend.’
‘Messenger:
And the poor woman, her eyes glazed over, stirred from her silence
and with a deep groan was trying to get up.
But a twofold trouble was warring against her:
the crown of gold around her head
was spewing out an eerie stream of ravenous fire,
and the fine robes, gifts from your children,
were eating away the poor girl’s beautiful flesh.
She stands up and tries to escape, but she is on fire.
She shakes her head this way and that,
trying to throw off the crown, but all the more tightly
the gold holds its bonds; and the fire — when she shook
her head — burned twice as bright.
Overcome by the disaster she falls to the floor,
unrecognizable to the sight of anyone but a parent.
The condition of her eyes and her once lovely face
were murky, and blood dripped
from the top of her head with fire mixed in,
and the flesh was dripping from her bones like sap
from a pine, through the hidden gnawing of the poisons,
a terrible sight.’

from ‘Medea’ by Euripides

‘On the calm black water where the stars are sleeping
White Ophelia floats like a great lily;
Floats very slowly, lying in her long veils…
- In the far-off woods you can hear them sound the mort.

For more than a thousand years sad Ophelia
Has passed, a white phantom, down the long black river.
For more than a thousand years her sweet madness
Has murmured its ballad to the evening breeze.

The wind kisses her breasts and unfolds in a wreath
Her great veils rising and falling with the waters;
The shivering willows weep on her shoulder,
The rushes lean over her wide, dreaming brow…’

Arthur Rimbaud, ‘Ophelia’

Experimental photographer Victor Burgin did a series of photographs based on Alfred Hitchcock’s film ‘Vertigo’, 1958. This shot combinesVertigo and John Everett Millais’s ‘Ophelia’ 1852.

Homage to the Romantic ballet box, 1942, Joseph Cornell

Inside this box there is a black paper card with the following legend typed on it: ’on a moonlit night in the winter of 1855 the carriage of Maria Taglioni was halted by a Russian highwayman, and that ethereal creature commanded to dance for this audience of one upon a panther’s skin spread over the snow beneath the stars. From this little actuality arose the legend that, to keep alive the memory of this adventure so precious to her, Taglioni formed the habit of placing a piece of ice in her jewel casket or dressing table drawer where melting among the sparkling stones, there was evoked a hint of the starlit heavens over the ice-covered landscape’

‘He [Elagabalus] loaded his parasites with violets and other flowers in a banqueting room with a reversable ceiling, in such a way that some of them expired when they could not crawl out to the surface.’

Scriptores Historiae Augustae: Antoninus Heliogabalus (XXI.5)

The Roses of Heliogabalus by Lawrence Alma-Tadema, 1888, fragment

‘The garments of king’s daughter are of wrought gold.

First, armour heavy, her cloak of yellow plaques;

Each have diff’rent  gravure; chelydri, chimaerae,

Sphinxes joined in battle, lycanthropes in love;

The eyes are jewels, red or green, scales of nacre,

Claws platinum inlaid. It is fringed with sapphires.

Within her dress is one piece crushing her breasts to

Mountains marble with wand’ring veins like blue ore.

It is harsh with a cruelty of a thousand

Diamonds sewn in cusps and volutes and arabesques

Harsher the intimate garments against her skin

Woven in fine gold wire. ( Her skin is like orchid.)

More penitential than the horse-hair shirt. As she

Moves  each point of gold chafes or pierces her white flesh…’

from  ’The King’s daughter’ by Sherard Vines

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