Monday, June 27, 2011
Joyce the prose poet
Jan Pieters Sweelink. The quaint name of the old Dutch musician makes all beauty seem quaint and far. I hear his variations for the clavichord on an old air: Youth has an end. In the vague mist of old sounds a faint point of light appears: the speech of the soul is about to be heard. Youth has an end: the end is here. It will never be. You know that well. What then? Write it, damn you, write it! What else are you good for?
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It is my youth that has aged me. Writing confines these series of events to a mental calendar detached from todays. There it dwells with anniversaries better left forgotten and misplaced holidays.
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