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:

“Beauty is desired in order that it may be befouled; not for its own sake, but for the joy brought by the certainty of profaning it.”

Georges Bataille

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