Pinkerton

Letteratura

787 risposte in questa discussione

CORDELIA (aside.)
What shall Cordelia speak? Love, and be silent.
 
(The Bard of Avon, King Lear, Act 1, Scene 1, 61)

Condividi questo messaggio


Link di questo messaggio
Condividi su altri siti

4321-paul-auster-3d.png

I grabbed it.

Forse chi scrive non riesce, nemmeno a volerlo, a raccontare la propria vita, ma solo fantasmi di esistenza, attuali solo in quanto possibilità di come potrebbe o avrebbe potuto essere. Un ventaglio di modalità che fa una di una storia la storia possibile di ognuno di noi. Potenza della letteratura.

Condividi questo messaggio


Link di questo messaggio
Condividi su altri siti

"Everybody said so.
Far be it from me to assert that what everybody says must be true. Everybody is, often, as likely to be wrong as right. In the general experience, everybody has been wrong so often, and it has taken, in most instances, such a weary while to find out how wrong, that the authority is proved to be fallible. Everybody may sometimes be right; “but THAT’S no rule,” as the ghost of Giles Scroggins says in the ballad."

- Charles Dickens, The Haunted Man and the Ghost's Bargain

Condividi questo messaggio


Link di questo messaggio
Condividi su altri siti

"Again, as with the books, Aunt Mildred’s approach was a strictly pedagogical one, and she led Ferguson along by stages, knowing that Louis Armstrong had to come before Charlie Parker, who had to come before Miles Davis, that Tchaikovsky, Ravel, and Gershwin had to precede Beethoven, Mozart, and Bach, that the Weavers had to be listened to before Lead Belly, that Ella Fitzgerald singing Cole Porter was a necessary first step before one graduated to Billie Holiday singing Strange Fruit."

- Paul Auster, 4321

Condividi questo messaggio


Link di questo messaggio
Condividi su altri siti

"She was the first person he allowed into the inner chambers of his secret music palace, and when they weren’t rolling around on the bed or talking about their lives (mostly Anne-Marie’s life), they would listen to records on the small, two-speaker machine that sat on a table in the southern corner of the room, a present from Ferguson’s parents for his twelfth birthday. Now, three years later, 1962 had become the year of J. S. Bach, the year when Ferguson listened to Bach more than any other composer, in particular Glenn Gould’s Bach, with an emphasis on the Preludes and Fugues and the Goldberg Variations, and Pablo Casals’s Bach, which included endless playings of the six pieces for unaccompanied cello, and Hermann Scherchen conducting the Suites for Orchestra and the Saint Matthew Passion, which Ferguson had concluded was the finest piece Bach had ever written, hence the finest piece ever written by anyone, but he and Anne-Marie also listened to Mozart (the Mass in C Minor), Schubert (piano works performed by Sviatoslav Richter), Beethoven (symphonies, quartets, sonatas), and numerous others as well, nearly all of them gifts from Ferguson’s Aunt Mildred, not to speak of Muddy Waters, Fats Waller, Bessie Smith, and John Coltrane, which was not to speak of all sorts of other twentieth-century souls, both living and dead, and the best thing about listening to music with Anne-Marie was watching her face, studying her eyes and looking at her mouth as tears gathered or smiles formed, how deeply she felt the emotional resonances of any given piece, for unlike Ferguson she had been trained since earliest childhood and could play the piano well and had an excellent soprano voice, so excellent that she broke her vow not to participate in high school activities and joined the chorus midway through the first semester, and that was perhaps their greatest bond, the need for music that ran through their bodies, which at that point in their lives was no different from the need to find a way to exist in the world."

(...)

"At twelve and a half, Ferguson knew nothing about any kind of music except rock and roll, which he and his friends unanimously adored. His head was filled with the lyrics and melodies of Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly, Del Shannon, Fats Domino, and dozens of other pop singers, but when it came to classical music he was a virgin, not to mention jazz, blues, and the nascent folk revival, about which he was utterly ignorant as well, barring some comic ballads by the Kingston Trio, who were having their moment then. Knowing Schneiderman changed all that. For a boy who had been to only two concerts in his life (a performance of Handel’s Messiah at Carnegie Hall with Aunt Mildred and Uncle Paul; a matinee of Peter and the Wolf, which he saw with his lower school classmates during his first month at Hilliard), a boy who owned not a single record of classical music, whose mother owned not a single record of any kind and listened only to ancient standards and big-band stuff on the radio, for such a boy, who lacked even the smallest glimmer of knowledge about string quartets or symphonies or cantatas, just listening to his stepfather play the piano or the violin was a revelation, and beyond that there was the further revelation of listening to his stepfather’s record collection and discovering that music could actually reconfigure the atoms in a person’s brain, and beyond what happened in the apartments on Central Park West and Riverside Drive, there were the excursions with his mother and Schneiderman to Carnegie Hall and Town Hall and the Metropolitan Opera House that began just weeks after the three of them settled in together. Schneiderman wasn’t on a pedagogical mission, there was no plan to give the boy or his mother a formal education in music, he merely wanted to expose them to works he thought they would respond to, which meant not starting off with Mahler or Schoenberg or Webern but with booming, joyful works such as the 1812 Overture (Ferguson gasped when he heard the cannon for the first time) or histrionic pieces such as the Symphonie Fantastique or the vibrant program music of Pictures at an Exhibition, but bit by bit he lured them in, and before long they were accompanying him to Mozart operas and Bach cello recitals, and for the twelve- and thirteen-year-old Ferguson, who continued to adore the rock and roll he had always adored, those nights out in the concert halls were nothing less than a revelation about the workings of his own heart, for music was the heart, he realized, the fullest expression of the human heart, and now that he had heard what he had heard, he was beginning to hear better, and the better he heard, the more deeply he felt—sometimes so deeply that his body shook."

- Paul Auster, 4321

Condividi questo messaggio


Link di questo messaggio
Condividi su altri siti
7 ore fa, zeitnote dice:

"She was the first person he allowed into the inner chambers of his secret music palace, and when they weren’t rolling around on the bed or talking about their lives (mostly Anne-Marie’s life), they would listen to records on the small, two-speaker machine that sat on a table in the southern corner of the room, a present from Ferguson’s parents for his twelfth birthday. Now, three years later, 1962 had become the year of J. S. Bach, the year when Ferguson listened to Bach more than any other composer, in particular Glenn Gould’s Bach, with an emphasis on the Preludes and Fugues and the Goldberg Variations, and Pablo Casals’s Bach, which included endless playings of the six pieces for unaccompanied cello, and Hermann Scherchen conducting the Suites for Orchestra and the Saint Matthew Passion, which Ferguson had concluded was the finest piece Bach had ever written, hence the finest piece ever written by anyone, but he and Anne-Marie also listened to Mozart (the Mass in C Minor), Schubert (piano works performed by Sviatoslav Richter), Beethoven (symphonies, quartets, sonatas), and numerous others as well, nearly all of them gifts from Ferguson’s Aunt Mildred, not to speak of Muddy Waters, Fats Waller, Bessie Smith, and John Coltrane, which was not to speak of all sorts of other twentieth-century souls, both living and dead, and the best thing about listening to music with Anne-Marie was watching her face, studying her eyes and looking at her mouth as tears gathered or smiles formed, how deeply she felt the emotional resonances of any given piece, for unlike Ferguson she had been trained since earliest childhood and could play the piano well and had an excellent soprano voice, so excellent that she broke her vow not to participate in high school activities and joined the chorus midway through the first semester, and that was perhaps their greatest bond, the need for music that ran through their bodies, which at that point in their lives was no different from the need to find a way to exist in the world."

(...)

"At twelve and a half, Ferguson knew nothing about any kind of music except rock and roll, which he and his friends unanimously adored. His head was filled with the lyrics and melodies of Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly, Del Shannon, Fats Domino, and dozens of other pop singers, but when it came to classical music he was a virgin, not to mention jazz, blues, and the nascent folk revival, about which he was utterly ignorant as well, barring some comic ballads by the Kingston Trio, who were having their moment then. Knowing Schneiderman changed all that. For a boy who had been to only two concerts in his life (a performance of Handel’s Messiah at Carnegie Hall with Aunt Mildred and Uncle Paul; a matinee of Peter and the Wolf, which he saw with his lower school classmates during his first month at Hilliard), a boy who owned not a single record of classical music, whose mother owned not a single record of any kind and listened only to ancient standards and big-band stuff on the radio, for such a boy, who lacked even the smallest glimmer of knowledge about string quartets or symphonies or cantatas, just listening to his stepfather play the piano or the violin was a revelation, and beyond that there was the further revelation of listening to his stepfather’s record collection and discovering that music could actually reconfigure the atoms in a person’s brain, and beyond what happened in the apartments on Central Park West and Riverside Drive, there were the excursions with his mother and Schneiderman to Carnegie Hall and Town Hall and the Metropolitan Opera House that began just weeks after the three of them settled in together. Schneiderman wasn’t on a pedagogical mission, there was no plan to give the boy or his mother a formal education in music, he merely wanted to expose them to works he thought they would respond to, which meant not starting off with Mahler or Schoenberg or Webern but with booming, joyful works such as the 1812 Overture (Ferguson gasped when he heard the cannon for the first time) or histrionic pieces such as the Symphonie Fantastique or the vibrant program music of Pictures at an Exhibition, but bit by bit he lured them in, and before long they were accompanying him to Mozart operas and Bach cello recitals, and for the twelve- and thirteen-year-old Ferguson, who continued to adore the rock and roll he had always adored, those nights out in the concert halls were nothing less than a revelation about the workings of his own heart, for music was the heart, he realized, the fullest expression of the human heart, and now that he had heard what he had heard, he was beginning to hear better, and the better he heard, the more deeply he felt—sometimes so deeply that his body shook."

- Paul Auster, 4321

Mi stai incuriosendo, forse lo prendo.

Condividi questo messaggio


Link di questo messaggio
Condividi su altri siti
9 minuti fa, giordanoted dice:

Mi stai incuriosendo, forse lo prendo.

Confesso che stavolta Auster è riuscito a catturami col suo lazo. Un libro di un'avvincente umanità.

"[...] a mob of people baking in that airless room as tears spurted from clenched eyes and men and women sobbed, as boys and girls sobbed, and there was the rabbi at the pulpit reciting prayers in both Hebrew and English, none of that Christian claptrap about going to a better place, no fairy-tale afterlife for Ferguson and his people, these were the Jews, the demented, defiant Jews, and for them there was only one life and one place, this life and this earth, and the only way to look at death was to praise God, to praise the power of God even when the death belonged to a fourteen-year-old boy, to praise their fucking God until their eyes fell out of their heads and their balls fell off their bodies and their hearts shriveled inside them."

"AT THE CEMETERY, as the casket was being lowered into the ground, Artie’s father tried to jump into his son’s grave. It took four men to pull him back, and when he tried to break free of them and do it again, the biggest of the four, who turned out to be his younger brother, put him in a headlock and wrestled him to the ground."

- Paul Auster, 4321

Condividi questo messaggio


Link di questo messaggio
Condividi su altri siti

"He mostly kept to himself until the end of winter, going straight home after school every day, sometimes hitching rides with seniors who had cars, sometimes making the twenty-minute journey on foot. The house was always empty then, which meant it was quiet, and quiet was what he craved most after spending six and a half hours at school, a large, enveloping quiet that allowed him to recover from the ordeal of dragging his gloved and hatted body in front of the two thousand other bodies that filled the hallways and classrooms for those six and a half hours, and nothing was better than to withdraw into himself again and vanish. His parents generally came home a little past six, which gave him about two and a half hours to loll around in his empty fortress, for the most part upstairs in his room with the door closed, where he could crack open the window and smoke one or two of his mother’s forbidden cigarettes, relishing the irony of how the new report from the surgeon general about the perils of smoking had coincided with his own growing interest in the pleasures of tobacco, and as he smoked his mother’s life-threatening Chesterfields, Ferguson would pace around the room listening to records, alternating between big choral works (Verdi’s Requiem, Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis) and solo compositions by Bach (Pablo Casals, Glenn Gould), or else lie on the bed and read books, working his way through the recent bundle of paperbacks sent to him by Aunt Mildred, the unstinting tour guide of his literary education, who had just mapped out his second visit to France in the past nine months, and so Ferguson spent those late-afternoon hours reading Genet (The Thief’s Journal), Gide (The Counterfeiters), Sarraute (Tropisms), Breton (Nadja), and Beckett (Molloy), and when he wasn’t listening to music or reading books, Ferguson felt lost, so deeply at odds with himself that he sometimes felt he was bursting apart. He wanted to begin writing poems again, but he couldn’t concentrate, and every idea that entered his head seemed worthless. The first baseball-playing poet in history could no longer play baseball, and suddenly the poet in him was dying as well. Help me, he wrote one day. Why should I help you? the message to himself continued. Because I need your help, the first voice answered. Sorry, the second voice said. What you need is to stop saying you need help. Start thinking about what I need for a change.
And who are you?
I’m you, of course.
Who else do you think I am?"

"Sex for five straight Saturdays, sex in the early afternoon as the thin February light wrapped itself around the edges of the curtains and seeped into the air around their bodies, and then the pleasure of watching Amy climb back into her clothes, knowing that her naked body was inside those clothes, which somehow prolonged the intimacy of sex even when they weren’t having sex, the body he carried around in his mind as they went downstairs to fix themselves some lunch or listened to records or watched an old movie on television or took a short walk around the neighborhood or he read out loud to her from Pictures from Brueghel by William Carlos Williams, his newly anointed favorite, who had pushed Eliot off the throne following a bloody skirmish with Wallace Stevens."

- Paul Auster, 4321

Condividi questo messaggio


Link di questo messaggio
Condividi su altri siti

"Mrs. Baldwin was still droning on in front of the class, explaining that the three winners from each grade would be reading their essays out loud at an all-school assembly scheduled for Friday afternoon, and as Ferguson glanced over at Amy—who sat one row in front of him and two desks to the right—he was amused that when his eyes landed on her back, dead center between her two shoulder blades, she instantly turned around to look at him, as if she had felt his eyes touching her, and, even more amusing, once their eyes met, she scrunched up her face and stuck out her tongue at him, as if to say, Pooh on you, Archie Ferguson, I should have won and you know it, and when Ferguson smiled at her and shrugged, as if to say, You’re right, but what can I do about it?, Amy’s scrunch turned into a smile, and a moment later, unable to suppress the laugh gathering in her throat, she let out one of her weird snorts, an unexpectedly loud noise that prompted Mrs. Baldwin to interrupt what she was saying and ask, Is everything all right, Amy?
Just fine, Mrs. Baldwin, Amy said. I burped. I know it’s an unladylike thing to do, but I couldn’t help it. Sorry."

- Paul Auster, 4321

Qualcuno frequenta la lettura di Julian Barnes? Io ho provato a leggere qualcosa da qui...
978880622080MED.jpg

...ricavandone l'idea di uno che certamente s'impegna e ci prova, ma che proprio non riesce ad essere uno scrittore autentico. Gli manca la cifra personale e il carattere di presa sul mondo di colui che non si limita al mero esercizio di una tecnica, ma con la parola ti consegna le cose stesse a domicilio, ovvero nella tua testa.

Condividi questo messaggio


Link di questo messaggio
Condividi su altri siti

"Writing a newspaper article was going to be different from any other kind of writing Ferguson had done in the past. Not just the writing of poems and short stories, which were so different from journalism they didn’t even belong in the discussion, but also the other forms of nonfiction writing he had been engaged in for most of his life: personal letters (which sometimes reported on real events but were predominantly filled with opinions about himself and others: I love you, I hate you, I’m sad, I’m happy, our old friend turns out to be a despicable liar) and papers for school, such as his recent essay on King Lear, which was essentially a group of words responding to another group of words, as was the case with nearly all scholarly endeavors: words responding to words. By contrast, a newspaper article was a group of words responding to the world, an attempt to put the unwritten world into words, and in order to tell the story of an event that had occurred in the real world you paradoxically had to begin with the last thing that had happened rather than the first, the effect rather than the cause, not George Bliffle woke up yesterday morning with a stomach ache but George Bliffle died last night at age seventy-seven, with something about the stomach ache two or three paragraphs down. The facts above all else, and the most important fact before all other facts, but just because you had to stick to the facts didn’t mean you were supposed to stop thinking or weren’t allowed to use your imagination (...)"

"It had been transformed into a site of potential words, the words he would write about the game that had just begun, and because it was his job to write those words, he had to look at what was happening more closely than he had ever looked at anything, and the sheer attentiveness and singularity of purpose that sort of looking required seemed to lift him up and fill his veins with massive jolts of electric current. The hair on his head was sizzling, his eyes were wide open, and he felt more alive than he had in weeks, alive and alert, all lit up and awake in the moment. He had a pocket-sized notebook with him, and all world you paradoxically had to begin with the last thing that had happened rather than the first, the effect rather than the cause, not George Bliffle woke up yesterday morning with a stomach ache but George Bliffle died last night at age seventy-seven, with something about the stomach ache two or three paragraphs down. The facts above all else, and the most important fact before all other facts, but just because you had to stick to the facts didn’t mean you were supposed to stop thinking or weren’t allowed to use your imagination, as Red Smith had done earlier that year when reporting on the defeat of Sonny Liston for the heavyweight title: “Cassius Marcellus Clay fought his way out of the horde that swarmed and leaped and shouted in the ring, climbed like a squirrel onto the red velvet ropes and brandished his still-gloved hand aloft. ‘Eat your words,’ he howled to the working press rows. ‘Eat your words.’” Just because you were confined to the real world didn’t make you any less of a writer if you had it in you to write well. 
Ferguson knew that sports were of no consequence in the long run, but they lent themselves to the written word more readily than most other subjects because each game had a built-in narrative structure, the agon of competition necessarily resulted in a victory for one team and a defeat for the other, and Ferguson’s job was to tell the story of how the winner won and the loser lost, whether by one point or by twenty points, and when he showed up for the first game of the season on that Tuesday night in mid-December, he had already figured out how he was going to shape his story, since the central drama of the Montclair basketball team that year was the youth and inexperience of its players, not one member of the starting five had been a starter last season, eight seniors had graduated in June and with one exception the current squad was composed entirely of sophomores and juniors. That would be the thread that ran through his coverage of the team from game to game, Ferguson decided, charting whether a collection of raw beginners would evolve into a solid unit as the season unfolded or simply stagger along from one defeat to the next, and even though Imhoff had promised to boot him out if the first article failed to deliver the goods, Ferguson wasn’t planning to fail, he most emphatically was not going to fail, and therefore he looked upon that first article as the opening chapter of a saga he would go on writing until the season ended after the eighteenth game in mid-February.
What he hadn’t expected was how inordinately alive he would feel when he walked into the school gym and took his seat beside the official scorer at the table that straddled the midcourt line. Everything was suddenly different. No matter how many games he had seen in that gym over the years, no matter how many physical education classes he had attended there since entering high school, no matter how many indoor practice sessions he had taken part in there as a varsity baseball player, the gym was no longer the same gym that evening. It had been transformed into a site of potential words, the words he would write about the game that had just begun, and because it was his job to write those words, he had to look at what was happening more closely than he had ever looked at anything, and the sheer attentiveness and singularity of purpose that sort of looking required seemed to lift him up and fill his veins with massive jolts of electric current. The hair on his head was sizzling, his eyes were wide open, and he felt more alive than he had in weeks, alive and alert, all lit up and awake in the moment. He had a pocket-sized notebook with him, and all through the game he jotted down what he was seeing on the hardwood court, for long stretches he found himself seeing and writing simultaneously, the pressure to translate the unwritten world into written words was pulling out the words with surprising quickness, it was utterly unlike the slow, brooding agonies that went into writing a poem, all was speed now, all was haste, and almost without thinking about it he was writing down words such as a short, redheaded ball handler with the quickness of a hamster and a skinny rebounding machine with elbows as deadly as sharpened pencils and a foul shot that fluttered in and out of the rim like an indecisive hummingbird, and then, after Montclair fell to Bloomfield in a closely fought 54–51 defeat, Ferguson concluded the story with: The Mountie faithful, unaccustomed to losing after an autumn of football perfection, shuffled out of the gym in silence."

- Paul Auster, 4321

Condividi questo messaggio


Link di questo messaggio
Condividi su altri siti

"In his three years as a high school student in the New Jersey suburbs, the sixteen-, seventeen-, and eighteen-year-old Ferguson started twenty-seven short stories, finished nineteen of them, and spent no less than one hour every day with what he called his work notebooks, which he filled with various writing exercises he invented for himself in order to stay sharp, dig down, and try to get better (as he once put it to Amy): descriptions of physical objects, landscapes, morning skies, human faces, animals, the effect of light on snow, the sound of rain on glass, the smell of burning wood, the sensation of walking through fog or listening to wind blow through the branches of trees; monologues in the voices of other people in order to become those other people or at least try to understand them better (his father, his mother, his stepfather, Amy, Noah, his teachers, his friends at school, Mr. and Mrs. Federman), but also unknown and more distant others such as J. S. Bach, Franz Kafka, the checkout girl at the local supermarket, the ticket collector on the Erie Lackawanna Railroad, and the bearded panhandler who cadged a dollar from him in Grand Central Station; imitations of admired, demanding, inimitable writers from the past (take a paragraph from Hawthorne, for example, and compose something based on his syntactical model, using a verb wherever he used a verb, a noun wherever he used a noun, an adjective wherever he used an adjective—in order to feel the rhythms in your bones, to feel how the music was made); a curious sequence of vignettes generated by puns, homonyms, and one-letter displacements of words: ail/ale, lust/lost, soul/soil, birth/berth; and impetuous jags of automatic writing to clear his brain whenever he was feeling stuck, as with a four-page scribble-gush inspired by the word nomad that began: No, I am not mad. Nor am I even angry, but give me a chance to discombobulate you, and I’ll pick your pockets clean."

- Paul Auster, 4321

Condividi questo messaggio


Link di questo messaggio
Condividi su altri siti

Crea un account o accedi per lasciare un commento

You need to be a member in order to leave a comment

Crea un account

Iscriviti per un nuovo account nella nostra community. È facile!


Registra un nuovo account

Accedi

Sei già registrato? Accedi qui.


Accedi Ora

  • Chi sta navigando   0 utenti

    Nessun utente registrato visualizza questa pagina.