early morning corn

trey moody's information receptacle

“For me, literature is a form of play… When children play, though they’re amusing themselves, they take it very seriously. It’s important. It’s just as serious for them now as love will be ten years from now. I remember when I was little and my parents used to say, ‘Okay, you’ve played enough, come take a bath now.’ I found that completely idiotic, because, for me, the bath was a silly matter. It had no importance whatsoever, while playing with my friends was something serious. Literature is like that—it’s a game, but it’s a game one can put one’s life into. One can do everything for that game.”
Julio Cortázar (via mttbll)

(Source: theparisreview.org, via mttbll)

Nice library haul today.

Nice library haul today.


Issa, trans. Robert Hass


Issa, trans. Robert Hass

(via lucybiederman)

Ernst Meister, from Wallless Space, tr. Graham Foust and Samuel Frederick

Ernst Meister, from Wallless Space, tr. Graham Foust and Samuel Frederick

Review Copy

If you’re interested in receiving a free review copy of Thought That Nature, shoot me an email with your address and I’ll be happy to send one your way on a long or short journey beginning at the San Marcos post office.

Karl Krolow


You’re loquacious.
I see our imaginary life
rushing past: a Morse code.
Heaps of leaves in country corners.
It’s fall and you’re voluble.

Something new’s knocking at the shutters.
Not another word about summer, yellow as straw.
Stubborn birds are on the wing,
and my armpits are cold.

Forget all that. Come closer, can’t you.
There’s no intimacy
to our words.
Have you noticed this,
then that?
The swallows that dart along so low are gone.
I’ve got only one face
when you look at me.

(translated by Stuart Friebert)

“The world is perfect
and that’s the problem.
You can’t discover the lost treasure
if the ship didn’t sink.”
(via therumpus)

(Source: therumpus.net, via jeffalessandrelli)

Yang Wan-li


Don’t read books,
don’t chant poems:

read books and your eyes wither until they see bones,
chant poems and every word’s vomited from the heart.

People say it’s delightful to read books,
they say it’s wondrous to chant poems,

but it means lips hissing on and on like autumn insects,
and makes you thin and frail, ravages you with old-age.

Thin and frail, ravaged with age—that may not be much,
but it’s pretty annoying for anyone close enough to hear.

It’s nothing like closing your eyes and sitting in a study:
lower the blinds and sweep away the dust, light some incense,

then listen to wind, listen to rain: they have such flavors.
When you’re strong, walk. And when you’re tired, sleep.

(trans. David Hinton)