Nobody listens anymore. I can’t talk to the walls because they’re yelling at me, I can’t talk to my wife; she listens to the walls. I just want someone to hear what I have to say. And maybe if I talk long enough it’ll make sense. And I want you to teach me to understand what I read.
I have nothing to say/ and I am saying it/ and that is poetry/ as I need it.
Even books, word-things that should be judged by their content, fascinate me as objects. I confess I have many books in my library that I have never read nor had the intention of reading. I want them because their sheer presence represents a yearning, a mood, a love, and yes, an act of self-preservation. When my eyes scan my library, the typefaces of the titles, the textures of the covers, and their imagined weight give me a moment very like the pleasure of reading.
To look and to listen requires the work of attention, selection, reappropriation, a way of making one’s own film, one’s own text, one’s own installation out of what the artist has presented.
Jill Magid, The Kosinski Quotes: My Sensitivity, Silkscreen on Rives BKF paper
[the system is based on the secret service practice of highlighting text to be erased, and my own personal system of marking]
Mel Bochner, Notecard (No thought exists…), 1969, ink on notecard [+]
Bertrand Fleuret — via & more — site
[you can download the whole .pdf file]
“I am alone. Walking at random. Wandering, as if at random,...
Peter Upward.
August Strindberg.
From The Lodger, Alfred Hitchcock, 1927.