|While Kathy is going through the antique shops I am free to stand
as long as I like in the back room of O. Brisky's
store of used books.
Mildew, dust, spiders living in the Geometries, the Histories. Here is
something I nearly bought new, but could be mine for seven dollars:
Forgetting: 20th-Century Poetry of Witness.
The very thickness of
the collection is a rebuke.|
we drink you at midday Death is a master aus Deutschland
we drink you at evening and morning we drink and we drink
this Death is ein Meister aus Deutschland his eye it is blue
John Caputo's chapter somewhere,
juxtaposing citations and discussions of Adorno et. al. with Celan--the
Frankfurt School statements about the impossibility of art after
a man lives in the house your goldenes Haar Margarete
he looses his hounds on us grants us a grave in the air
he plays with his vipers and daydreams...
the translator does a nice job, leaving the concluding phrases in the original
dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Shulamith
while the sunlight only
reaches part way into the back room of O. Brisky's, with the dust motes
filling the beam even if theoretically there is no witness for the
Sevenhundredsixtytwo pages, divided into sections beginning with The Armenian Genocide (1909-1918), concluding with Revolutions and the struggle for Democracy in China (1911-1991). I put the bargain back on the shelf (time to meet Kathy for lunch)
the coffee at Mildred's, the espresso, au lait, I remember now, the coffee.