DON’T READ BOOKS
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)
Though I’ll probably never get over Games 6 and 7 of the 2013 NBA Finals, last night mostly (but definitely not entirely) made up for it. Proud to be a native San Antonian and a fan of such a smart, humble, unselfish organization. Go Spurs.
Infant, it is enough in lifeWallace Stevens, from “The Red Fern”
To speak of what you see. But wait
Until sight wakens the sleepy eye
And pierces the physical fix of things.
A word is matter, that it exists in tactual materiality, that it has a cubic bulk. Only on the page is it flat and undensified. In the mouth and in the mind it is three-dimensional, and there are parts that shoot out from it or sink into its syntactic surround.Gary Lutz (via skepticsandmystics)