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April 4   The Persian Woman in the Persian Coat

Finishing Bernhard’s Yes right now.

A minor work, or more minor than the others, earlier too I believe.  But fine, I completely enjoyed it, but then I am wrapping myself these days in the comforting folds of Bernhard-mania.

April 12    More choice lines from Bernhard

from The Lime Works

There were so many inadequate, amateurish doctoral theses about the hearing, Konrad said to the works inspector, according to Wieser, and of course the amateurishness of a doctoral dissertation was the most embarassing kind of amateurishness.  The dilettantism of the specialists was the most embarassing kind, the most distressing thing about the specialists was their boundless dilettantism, every time.  (67)

None of the authors had any ability to do their own thinking, at all, Konrad said; all they are is professional ruminants.  (67)

But it was all done with a view to the book as a whole; how easy it would be for a dilettante to fritter himself away, lose himself in a sea of details, Konrad is supposed to have said.  (99)

You could say, of course, that the whole thing was crazy, but then you would have to say that everything was crazy, which is the simple truth, that everything is in fact crazy, still, nobody would dare say such a thing because, if he did, everyone would say he was crazy, which could only lead to everything coming to an end, everything gradually coming to a stop of its own accord, Konrad is supposed to have said.  Human beings (all mankind) owed their very existence, after all, to inconsistency (the utmost).     (101)

April 19   Moving House

Packed more boxes today.  Threw out tons of old files, notes, stuff in drawers and boxes and closets and shelves.  Virginia's deep Dutch genes getting us into this thing.  Having all the floors sanded may be the pre-text; might be more a Visitation from Goddess Kali.  That Icelandic volcano could be hers, too.

Saw the Japanese movie "Departures."   Terrific.

April 19   Paul Stitcher  died a few weeks ago.  Mother's brother, Nancy's father, Uncle Paul and Aunt Marney.  Nancy, Tom and ? 

April 19    A Plug for Coffeehouse Press

This famous small press in Minneapolis publishes quality books.  I am nearly finished reading Laird Hunt's new work, Ray of the Star.

But the plug I want to register is about the physical and artistic design of the book.  So pleasurable to hold, to hold open, to read.  Maybe we are moving into the age of the electronic replacements for books but before we go, when I become President, or something, I would decree that all books must be designed and produced by the team at Coffee House.

And there is the "prophecy" too---as we move into iPads and Kindles etc etc you can be sure that fine book printing will grow exponentially too.  In twenty years or less there will be some young e-mogul who has made bizillions by inventing whatever next took the internet by storm and we will see a virtual tour of her newly designed penthouse in Dubai where she has had all the books on her iLibrary hand-printed on flax and hemp paper and bound in hand-woven silk and artisan-tooled leather.

April 10   from the Atlantic

Robert Walser  

excerpt from “People Who are Refined” from The Microscripts---

A young, beautiful woman served him well by making a good impression on his arm, but nonetheless he reamined a person incapable of emerging from his worries, for wherever he went he espied duties seeking his consideration and pleading with him to undertake them.  Here I would appear to have completed the first section of my essay.  Now I shall turn to his son or progeny, who inherited his mother’s curls and his father’s genuinely handsome facial features, but a certain precious entity--by which I mean the worrying--was not imparted to him.  He was allowed to sped his days in a state of distraction, for this tender bud led a precious existence.  Not for a moment do I doubt this, for I understand him, and since this is the case, my pen can scarcely find the courage to depict him or sketch his portrait, this lad who sat in his room reading, at pains to consider himself happy.  Only cautiously, apprehensively do I lay hands on him.  May the image of him I am attempting to create resemble a wafting breeze, a sweet odor!  It can well be believed that the building in which he lived was a marvelous edifice standing amid a splendid garden prettily composed, in an illusion-promoting manner, of meadows, trees and paths, fountains splashing in pavilions.  Anyone strolling through this park was instantly ennobled and moved to indulge in lovely fantasies.  A small lake or pond whose gentlenesses adorned the garden and whose gleam rendered it even quieter and more isolated, was enlivened by swans with plumage that appeared to be singing.  The air appeared to be the bride of the garden, and the garden its bridegroom, and leaves and flowers rejoiced when the precious one strolled up to join them and address a few words to these whispering entities who sent friendly glances all about them.  From time to time he undertook a boat ride on the water, or else sat for a while upon a shady bench, entering into relations with all sorts of thoughts that harmonized with the peacefulness of his surrounds; to their fleetingness he made no objection, as he did not begrudge them their freedom.  In his hair the wind was playing.  Even as a small child, lying in his cradle, he had possessed a certain worth.  He would never grow old, this he sensed, for aging is linked to a diminishment of a person’s attractive appearance, and it seemed he would not be permitted to forfeit his grace or give people who laid eyes on him cause to think of anything regrettable.  His life’s purpose lay in being graceful, in being overcome.  No one disapproved of him, for which reason he was forbidden to become something to which breath and a form belonged.  Surrounded by company, he limited his activities to well-mannered comportment along with something that appears to have been both enlivening and distracting.  Not  being known was the lot that fell to his soul, which remained not quite grown-up.  What people expected and almost found it appropriate to wish for, in light of his preciousness, came to pass.  An illness took hold of him, and he let it bear him away until he departed.