The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive


"It is precisely in its lack of care that the Sublime manifests itself as
such; indeed, any attempt at symbolization, description, language, can
only destroy its presence and perception. Perception? As if perception had
anything to do with fantasy! But this is a slow piece, as is stately for
those objects which have remained inviolate, only to be destitute in an
era of global warming. Still, yes, this work has to do with memory, memory
of rock and rock, of that green glacial runoff that carries the dream of a
universe within it. The sheer weight of a single boulder is enough of a
loss of bone and skeleton, nothing slowly raises to the sky but sky, or
but the world prior to landscape, beyond landscape. For landscape already
requires a vanishing point, not of the subject, but of the subject's gaze
which destroys it, so what of a landscape within and without which there
is nothing of the human, nothing but the momentary skittering of two of
them, signaling nowhere, nothing to say, unspeaking, unspeakable, in the
throes of the Sublime?

"Then the world turned blood."

Generated by Mnemosyne 0.12.