Christian Molenaar

Tag: dalkey archive

  • Contrary to Common Sense

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    Already the bugs were in it. In the hot summer of 1885, while Mr. Edison rested at home in Woodside Villa, New York, taking perhaps the only self-prescribed vacation of his life, as he was still somewhat debilitated after the death of his first wife, they came buzzing all over the house — for bugs,… Read more

  • Hardly One Copy Would Sell Here

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    Rejection letter sent to Gertrude Stein by A. C. Fifield, April 19, 1912 Read more

  • 2025

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    I started the year with no greater plans than a set at the Brown Building alongside Amy Cimini and Sean Jones playing my songs for voice and cello. Somehow that turned into a full twelve months of gigging and recording, the busiest year I’ve had post-lockdown. Below, the highlights (and lowlights): Read more

  • November 6, 18—

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    They (writers) publish books for the pleasure of seeing them printed and bound, without remembering the saddest aspects of their lives will end up contained in those pages. Read more

  • The Great Flood

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    Rilke was eternally someone’s houseguest. Once he had fifty different addresses in four years. Read more

  • October 7, 1849

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    At forty, in Baltimore. Filthy, starving, drunk and/or with delirium tremens, crying out at unseen creatures. Read more

  • September 28

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    Poet, critic and “father of imagism” T. E. Hulme died 108 years ago today. Read more

  • Not Something I Ever Knew

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    Andrea senza errori, he was also called. What that means is that he never made a single mistake, when he was drawing. Read more

  • Quitting Time

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    Today I left the job at which I’ve worked for the last two years, one of the more dysfunctional I’ve held besides the barbecue place boasting a back-of-house fight club, though of course I’d be lying if I pretended the last few weeks at the up-to-present job haven’t been pleasant, though of course I’d be… Read more

  • Should He Remember?

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    May 30, 1593. Eleanor Bull’s Tavern, Deptford Strand. Read more

Thought:

“From childhood he dreamed of being able to keep with him all the objects in the world lined up on his shelves and bookcases. He denied lack, oblivion or even the likelihood of a missing piece. Order streamed from Noah in blue triangles and as the pure fury of his classifications rose around him, engulfing his life they came to be called waves by others, who drowned, a world of them.”

Anne Carson | “Short Talk on the Total Collection”

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