I read the Comte de Lautréamont’s Les Chants de Maldoror at some point in my twenties, drawn to the intensity of its gothic, absurdist imagery and the enigma of its author (Lautréamont was a pen name; the author’s real name was Isidore Ducasse).
I recently discovered that Ducasse had planned to write a companion volume: a ‘chants of the good’, as a counterpoint to or repudiation of Maldoror’s revels of evil. In what may have been a preface to the new work, he announced his intentions thus:
I replace melancholy by courage, doubt by certainty, despair by hope, malice by good, complaints by duty, scepticism by faith, sophisms by cool equanimity and pride by modesty.
It’s fair to say that, in general, I swerve toward the negative value in most of Ducasse’s binaries above, especially melancholy, doubt and despair. This has been particularly the case over the last few years, having found myself at times overwhelmed by feelings of failure.
But it helps to know that there are alternatives, whatever challenges may stand in the way of realising them.
Pursuing a writing career in spare time can feel constrained—like paddling in a kiddie pool when you could be crossing the ocean
Most of what calls itself contemporary is built, whether it knows it or not, out of a desire to be liked. It is created in imitation of what already exists and is already admired. There is, in other words, nothing new about it. To be contemporary is to rise through the stack of the past, like the fire through the mountain. Only a heat so deeply and intelligently born can carry a new idea into the air.
— A Poetry Handbook, Mary Oliver
The point, the bit I live for, is the rare moment of satisfaction when a smell or a quality of sadness comes into perfect verbal focus. That’s how my family know the day has gone well: I have a lightness which comes from the absence of panic, the knowledge that, for once, I did what I’m best at doing.
I was much relieved to realise that the first paragraph of Charlotte Mendelson’s ‘My Writing Day’ entry for the Guardian was a wind-up. On the other hand, the final paragraph, quoted above, feels perfectly genuine.
Chris Miles can currently be seen in the middle distance of the little-known Hieronymous Bosch triptych ‘Waiting for the 86 tram’.
My favourite light and appetising pop star is Peter Entrée.
I reckon even George Clooney forgets he was once Batman.
I have reluctantly accepted that I’ve reached a stage in my life in which I no longer know what different iPads there are.
I have, in the course of this evening, been forced — by circumstances beyond my control — to broaden my definition of ‘chocolate’.
My favourite column in ‘Mermaid’s Weekly’ is ‘Mere Mermale’.
‘Sound of Kubaz informant notifying Empire of presence of droids at Mos Eisley’ has become my signature morning fart.
Decided not to run for the train so as to spare its passengers from being in close quarters with a hyperventilating man-shaped blancmange.
It’s muggier out there than the mug showfloor at Muggy Meg ‘Crazy For Mugs’ Muggleton’s Mug Emporium.
Always the bridesmaid, never the brideshousekeeper.
Wanted to cross the road before the green signal but there was a guide dog in training next to me and I didn’t want to give it bad habits.
This oil bath* is going to feel so good. (* water shower)
Just saw a golfer employing the services of a self-propelling buggy. Just removing literally the only strenuous part of golfing there.
I wish I’d remembered, prior to going in for a big cuddle with him, that my dog had earlier today enjoyed a bit of a nosh on some chunder.
It’s almost as though with each release of Internet Explorer the team at Microsoft reads a different 62% of the current CSS specification.