Yasmin Taketani
Install Theme
The question itself has not changed
but only the depths of memory
through which it rises

— An excerpt from W. S. Merwin's poem "The Blackboard," in this week’s issue.
(via newyorker)

(via newyorker)

theparisreview:

“Sorrow is bottomless. But, fortunately, those of us who are readers can seek out solace in the beauty of language.”
Read our Art of Poetry interview with Henri Cole, now online in full.
Pictured: Cole with James Merrill, ca. 1990.

theparisreview:

“Sorrow is bottomless. But, fortunately, those of us who are readers can seek out solace in the beauty of language.”

Read our Art of Poetry interview with Henri Cole, now online in full.

Pictured: Cole with James Merrill, ca. 1990.

Nearly every statement Kawakubo makes about herself is hedged or negated by a contradiction, and she resists being defined even by her own words. The desire to be unique and the sense of isolation that the feeling generates are a predicament common to artistic people. What makes Kawakubo’s clothes so attractive to them is precisely her genius for wrapping up the paradoxes of being a misfit and a cipher in something to wear that is magically misfitting.

Judith Thurman writes in a 2005 Profile of the Japanese designer Rei Kawakubo. (via newyorker)

(Source: newyorker.com, via newyorker)

Rilke

Tous mes adieux sont faits. Tant de départs
m’on lentement formé dès mon enfance.
Mais je reviens encor, je recommence,
ce franc retour libère mon regard.

Ce qui me reste, c’est de le remplir,
et ma joie toujours impénitente
d’avoir aimé des choses ressemblantes
à ces absences qui nous font agir.

pedrofranz:

Jardim, parte 5.

pedrofranz:

Jardim, parte 5.

Almost like the blues

Leonard Cohen

I saw some people starving
There was murder, there was rape
Their villages were burning
They were trying to escape
I couldn’t meet their glances
I was staring at my shoes
It was acid, it was tragic
It was almost like the blues

I have to die a little
Between each murderous thought
And when I’m finished thinking
I have to die a lot
There’s torture and there’s killing
There’s all my bad reviews
The war, the children missing
Lord, it’s almost like the blues


I let my heart get frozen
To keep away the rot
My father said I’m chosen
My mother said I’m not
I listened to their story
Of the Gypsies and the Jews
It was good, it wasn’t boring
It was almost like the blues

There is no G-d in heaven
And there is no Hell below
So says the great professor
Of all there is to know
But I’ve had the invitation
That a sinner can’t refuse
And it’s almost like salvation
It’s almost like the blues