Tag: writing
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On the names of things
Only when writing do I wonder about the names of things. I haven’t been writing so I haven’t been wondering about the names of things. Of course I have been writing, but not the kind of writing where I wonder about the names of things. * A young man squats out of the sun as Read.
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On Chi Vu’s Anguli Ma
Anguli Ma is a murderer. In the versions of the myth that I found online, his name is Angulimala, named as such for the garland of fingers, lopped from the hands of his victims, that he wears around his neck. The wicked man is one finger away from completing his finger-necklace when Buddha convinces him Read.
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On the 12 best books of 2012
You don’t know me at all. Read.
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On something Eliot said – Part II
In the time since sharing my last post, I’ve read The Myth of Wu Tao-Tzu by Sven Lindqvist, a book that directly interrogates this idea of escaping into art. The story the book is named after goes as follows: Wu Tao-Tzu paints a mural on a wall. Upon completing the mural, he claps his hands Read.
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On something Eliot said
Sometimes I feel like. Let me start over. There are moments, days, entire blocks of my waking life when I wish I could immerse myself – but unthinkingly, that is, without thinking, without being compelled to think, having to string thought-images together in logical sequences – or fall, as if off a bridge, into art. Read.
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On Beijing’s CCTV Headquarters
Beijing is dusty and sprawling and not a city you become nostalgic for. Some sections of it are, to the time-poor visitor, plain and free of character; some, particularly those around the historical and controversial Hutongs, even look positively provincial. But during my week in the city I began to gather habits, as if I Read.
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On Andrew Croome’s Midnight Empire
I’ve got a review of Midnight Empire, the second novel, an addictive and sharp espionage thriller, by Andrew Croome, up at Verity La. All praise is due to Monsieur Featherstone. Read.
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On MONA and getting it but not
While I waited at Hobart Airport for the plane out, the scent of hot fast food reminded me of the acrid, sour, rotten kitchen smell of Cloaca Professional, the eating machine at MONA. I happened to be in its room, trying to understand how it worked while half expecting to be completely repelled by its Read.
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On tarcutta wake
The kind of writing that makes me want to write, right now, and write better. I finished it with the thought that I want to read one very long piece with the same texture as these short pieces and if Josephine writes a very long piece, and I hope she one day does, I will Read.
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On Brad Frederiksen
Brad Frederiksen is a poet. Much of his work is experimental and opaque; he waits patiently for readers to make the connections in his writing, not unlike putting messages in bottles and casting them into the ocean. Some years ago, on my old site, I posed the question, “What do you do when your favourite Read.
Tristan Foster 