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Airflow. Handwriting notebooks
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Sprache:Griechisch
7,99 €
inkl. gesetzl. MwSt.Beschreibung
Produktdetails
Format
ePUB
Kopierschutz
Ja
Family Sharing
Ja
Text-to-Speech
Ja
Erscheinungsdatum
04.06.2026
Verlag
S. PatakisSeitenzahl
104 (Printausgabe)
Dateigröße
846 KB
Sprache
Griechisch
EAN
9789601640365
I was not given time. I do not let it pass. Like in the "Mrs. Mary" I played as a child. It does not pass! In the end it passes!
"From the moment there is a practice of writing," writes Roland Barthes, "we are in the midst of something that is not exactly literature." The fact that it is only "writing" worries me more and more. It even saddens me that this is no longer "life."
I believed that on the "other side" - the altra riva, where joy lies - time would no longer concern me. By writing I would become immortal and I would recognize in the form of what I write the poem - the viatique pour l'éternité, as I read on the marble slab on the facade of Vladimir Yankelevich's house. But the practice of writing, which abolishes genres, does not even console me to say: "There! I wrote. And it doesn't matter what."
I am not reassured by the fact that writing is already (kind of) the "style" of writing without classifications. It is not enough for me yet that language is nothing more than an "instrument". But let me not ask for too much. I have never been a theorist or a writer, so to speak. An organist? Yes. And not even the many "kinds" that justify me to myself when writing would prevent me, despite my anxiety, from hitting the keys of a Steinway with a grand piano, thinking that I am playing Schoenberg's "Piano Sonata, op. 25", or Anton Webern's "Piano Variations, op. 27".
Glenn Gould does it best.
"Don't bother to understand for the moment; read and reread, and then the poem will unfold itself."
So listen to me.
G.B.
"From the moment there is a practice of writing," writes Roland Barthes, "we are in the midst of something that is not exactly literature." The fact that it is only "writing" worries me more and more. It even saddens me that this is no longer "life."
I believed that on the "other side" - the altra riva, where joy lies - time would no longer concern me. By writing I would become immortal and I would recognize in the form of what I write the poem - the viatique pour l'éternité, as I read on the marble slab on the facade of Vladimir Yankelevich's house. But the practice of writing, which abolishes genres, does not even console me to say: "There! I wrote. And it doesn't matter what."
I am not reassured by the fact that writing is already (kind of) the "style" of writing without classifications. It is not enough for me yet that language is nothing more than an "instrument". But let me not ask for too much. I have never been a theorist or a writer, so to speak. An organist? Yes. And not even the many "kinds" that justify me to myself when writing would prevent me, despite my anxiety, from hitting the keys of a Steinway with a grand piano, thinking that I am playing Schoenberg's "Piano Sonata, op. 25", or Anton Webern's "Piano Variations, op. 27".
Glenn Gould does it best.
"Don't bother to understand for the moment; read and reread, and then the poem will unfold itself."
So listen to me.
G.B.
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