DC's

The blog of author Dennis Cooper

Page 798 of 1102

Enivrant *

* (restored)

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‘Chloroform’s characteristically sweet odour isn’t irritating, although inhalation of concentrated chloroform vapour may cause irritation of exposed mucous surfaces. Chloroform is a more effective anaesthetic than nitrous oxide. The metabolism of chloroform in the body is dose-dependent; it may be proportionally higher at lower levels of exposure. A substantial but variable percentage of chloroform from inspired air is retained in the body; it is extensively metabolized by the liver. Metabolites of chloroform include phosgene, carbene and chlorine, all of which may contribute to its cytotoxic activity. Prolonged administration of chloroform as an anaesthetic can cause toxaemia. Acute poisoning is associated with headache, altered consciousness, convulsions, respiratory paralysis and disturbances of the autonomic nervous system: dizziness, nausea, and vomiting are common. Chloroform may also cause delayed-onset damage to the liver, heart and kidneys. When used in anaesthesia, insensibility was usually preceded by a stage of excitation. This was followed by loss of reflexes, diminished sensation and loss of unitary consciousness.’ –– general-anesthesia.com


Hostage Tower


Gameboy boy


Thoroughly Modern Millie


Guy friends


Buffy


The Touchables


chloro f/kid

 

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After Dinner We Take a Drive into the Night

We are watching for someplace to eat. We feel we are prey

for the insane scavengers of the air. We cannot make up our minds

and race five hundred miles away from our hosts.

I begin to feel passion.

I walk back and forth and it is a slow movie,

without the interest of acting, only walking.

Far from my prying eyes she strips off her clothes.

Oh for the wings of a bird.

The record slows down;

sweat falls on the instruments;

the musicians are bored.

A hand comes from the clouds to give me a poem.

I accept it and we shake hands.

The incident with the hand haunted me for the rest of my life.

I began to gasp. It is time to sing the death song,

clearing the tops of the trees, hearing the glass

from the window and the traffic from the street.

Each year is a supermarket; no, each year is captured by a word,

repeated with nostalgia, overwhelmed by ineptitude,

dropping to the ground and rolling down the bowling alley of the sky.

— Tony Towle

 

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Derelict aquatic park on Mars

‘The above first image offers a clean wide area view of this anomaly site without the distracting clutter of arrows and labels. I’ve done this because this site is otherwise busy with anomaly evidence and pointing it all out tends to make things get very crowded. Despite the above scene initially looking like there is little anomalous evidence in it, this is a very important site both from a surface water and civilization evidence point of view. The water and civilization evidence here is my fourth and last report to be drawn from the NASA-JPL-MSSS official MGS MOC M02-00163 narrow-angle image strip. As previously reported, this strip has produced the most numerous anomaly evidence so far for me of any single strip I’ve yet encountered in the official science data.

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‘What we’re looking at here is a huge entertainment park sporting a aquatic theme but on a massive monumental scale and quite different looking than anything seen here on Earth. Further, this park has been subjected to some disastrous calamity leaving a portion of it in wreckage and some of the rest of it appears to have essentially been abandoned and allowed to become at least partially derelict and in ruins. Certainly, at the very least, this place is no longer operational as to its initial intended purpose.

‘One of the first things you should be aware of is that there is a very bright glow area producing a lot of light in this scene pointed out with an arrow and label. Whether this is a highly reflective spill area or an intense glow produced from within and/or on the ground is unclear because no amount of darkening will allow a sufficient view into this bright glow spot. At ground level immediately adjacent to and just a little to our right of the flow area is the terminating end of a huge skeletal bridge system coming in from further to the right. It has twisted and dangling girders at the glow area indicating a massive failure of the bridge right at this its largest point.

‘I strongly suspect that this bright glow area is something residual and possibly still active representing some catastrophic failure of something at this point in the past that helped create the sudden failure of this facility and its abandonment. This is also probably why it remains abandoned and not a candidate for reconstruction.

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‘Imagine yourself now traveling across the trestle over the river from our right to our left and into the mid area of the still existing part of the bridge before getting to the terminating end but in the days when this site was fully operational. To your left you would see the giant shark like monument with its head area towering and appearing to hang over you dwarfing you and even the bridge system. Seen under the raised shark like monument’s front-end and behind it would be the lower profile mollusk like monument. In those past times, these two giant monuments would have probably been seen in standing open liquid water as though the creatures the monuments represent were alive in the water.

‘As large and dwarfing as these aquatic creature monuments are, on the opposite side of the bridge to your right from the same spot you would have seen a far larger far more massive colossal size clear conical shaped dome the size of a small mountain dwarfing everything. This clear dome would have been full of water and probably very large live creatures in that water appearing suspended in the air towering over you. Imagine the psychological impact as you leaned back to take in the monstrous height of this great massive pillar of water towering above you. The clear dome is still there, empty of course of water, and it appears intact and undamaged.

‘Imagine the great technical power it would have taken back when this was built to have constructed such a dome strong enough to withstand the outward pressure of all that mountain of water and its occupants even on a planet with a lesser gravity well. This clearly demonstrates just how technically advanced who ever designed and built this was or is and just how tough these clear domes on Mars can be amounting to heavily armored immensely strong constructs. Try as I have, I can’t detect any breach in the dome or that its shell has been damaged either.

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‘The above image presents an enlarged even if very grainy look at the two giant creature monuments. We can see these at all only because of their huge size. Their location on the other side of the bridge from the bright glow area, their huge size, and their probable solidity as monuments probably shielded them from any real damage in the calamity that otherwise destroyed a portion of this show case park as to its intended purpose.

‘The monument on the left in the above image clearly represents some kind of fish type aquatic creature. The fairly clear head, nose, mouth, and eye visuals at the left end of the object with sunlight reflecting off of this area and with the head area elevated above and a little over the bridge structure as well as the general body shape indicates that this is probably a shark like creature.

‘The monument on the right in the above image appears to possibly represent some kind of mollusk or clam like creature. On the left end of this object nearer to us, you will note that this broader proportioned end’s leading edge is ragged and irregular. This is all typical of invertebrate bivalve type aquatic creatures as is the narrowing taper of the body to the probable hinged rear end you also see here. What is not so typical is the dorsal fin structure starting in the mid part of the bivalve’s upper back area and extending straight back in a narrow dark line to and wrapping around and under the bottom of the creature’s rear end.

‘This is not likely to be some ancient dead ruins subjected to a long span of time of weathering and exposure. Rather, it is more logical that either this evidence’s disaster was of relatively recent date not giving sediment enough time to build up or someone is currently and actively maintaining part of this facility or both.’ — Joseph P. Skipper

 

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‘Your smell is intoxicating’

 

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Stylish French women in the Soviet Union

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The Promotion

I was a dog in my former life, a very good

dog, and, thus, I was promoted to a human being.

I liked being a dog. I worked for a poor farmer

guarding and herding his sheep. Wolves and coyotes

tried to get past me almost every night, and not

once did I lose a sheep. The farmer rewarded me

with good food, food from his table. He may have

been poor, but he ate well. And his children

played with me, when they weren’t in school or

working in the field. I had all the love any dog

could hope for. When I got old, they got a new

dog, and I trained him in the tricks of the trade.

He quickly learned, and the farmer brought me into

the house to live with them. I brought the farmer

his slippers in the morning, as he was getting

old, too. I was dying slowly, a little bit at a

time. The farmer knew this and would bring the

new dog in to visit me from time to time. The

new dog would entertain me with his flips and

flops and nuzzles. And then one morning I just

didn’t get up. They gave me a fine burial down

by the stream under a shade tree. That was the

end of my being a dog. Sometimes I miss it so

I sit by the window and cry. I live in a high-rise

that looks out at a bunch of other high-rises.

At my job I work in a cubicle and barely speak

to anyone all day. This is my reward for being

a good dog. The human wolves don’t even see me.

They fear me not.

— James Tate

 

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images

iDoser: Gates of Hades

‘iDoser is an application for the playback of proprietary audio content that uses binaural sounds to produce an effect similar to using certain drugs like LSD, marijuana and cocaine. It’s supposed to be perfectly safe and it’s 100% legal.

‘Research into the neurological technology behind I-Doser is sparse. Peer-reviewed studies exist suggesting that some specific binaural beat mixes can affect aspects of mental performance and mood, act as analgesic supplements or affect perceptions, but there have been no formal studies of any effects of mixes particular to I-Doser.

‘I wasn’t really interested in those that simulate drugs but there’s one that caught my attention. It’s called Gate of Hades. Gates of hades is a musical beat and series of sounds designed to make you feel particularly disturbing emotions. Specifically, it’s supposed to make you feel like you are falling into hell at infinite speeds. It’s iDoser’s strongest product and ideally it should scare you to death. This is what description says:

‘”Expect nightmares, near death experiences, and strong onset of fear.”

‘And I don’t expect any less since it costs $200.’ — Mayhem Makes Runescape Pure Clan and Community


Nichlas


German boy


Friend


Luke


Clint

 

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Radiguet_nude

Muse

from Pepi’s Symposium

‘Raymond Radiguet was born on June 18th, 1903; he died, without knowing it, on December 12th, 1923, after a miraculous life. The literary tribunal has found his heart arid. Raymond Radiguet’s heart was hard, and like a diamond it did not react to the least touch. It needed fire and other diamonds, and ignored the rest. Do not accuse fate. Do not speak of injustice. He belonged to the solemn race of men whose lives unfold too quickly to their close. “True presentiments,” he wrote at the end of The Devil In The Flesh, “are formed at a depth that the mind does not reach. Thus they sometimes make us do things that we misinterpret….A disorderly man who is going to die and does not know it suddenly puts his affairs in order. His life changes. He sorts his papers. He rises and goes to bed early. He gives up his vices. His friends are pleased. Then his brutal death seems all the more unjust to them. He would have lived happily.” For four months Raymond Radiguet became meticulous; he slept, he sorted, he revised. I was stupid enough to be glad of it; I had mistaken for a nervous disorder the intricacies of a machine that cuts crystal.’

Here are Radiguet’s last words:

‘”Listen,” he said to me on December 9th, “listen to something terrible. In three days I am going to be shot by the soldiers of God.” While tears choked me, as I invented other explanations: “Your explanations,” he continued, “are not so good as mine. The order has been given. I heard the order.” Later, he said: “There is a colour that moves and people hidden in the colour.” I asked if he wanted them sent away. He answered: “You cannot send them away as you cannot see the colour.” Then, he sank. He moved his mouth, he called us by name, he looked with surprise at his mother, at his father, at his hands. Raymond Radiguet left three volumes. A collection of unpublished poems, The Devil In The Flesh, a masterpiece of promise, and the promise fulfilled : Count d’Orgel. One is frightened by a child of twenty who publishes a book that cannot be written at that age. The dead of yesterday are eternal. The author of Count d’Orgel was the ageless writer of a dateless book. He received the proofs in the hotel room where his fever consumed him. He intended to make no alteration to them. His death robs us of memoirs of his development; three short stories; a long appendix to The Devil In The Flesh; Ile de France; and Charles d’Orleans, an historical picture, imaginary in the same way as the false autobiography of his first novel. The only honour that I claim is to have given to Raymond Radiguet in his life the illustrious place won for him by his death.’ — Jean Cocteau

‘Raymond Radiguet was born in Saint-Maur, a Parisian suburb, in 1903. He read much and began writing poetry in his mid teens, He abandoned his studies in favour of journalism and to leap into the Parisian literary circles where he mixed with Picasso, Stravinsky and Jean Cocteau who became his mentor and lover although their relationship was always difficult. In 1921 he completed The Devil in the Flesh and also published a collection of poems. The first version of Count d’Orgel’s Ball was finished in 1922 and revised in 1923, just a few months after the publication of The Devil in the Flesh and before he died of Typhoid at twenty, on the 12th December 1923 and was interred at Le Pere Lachaise in Paris.

‘Raymond Radiguet was a prodigy. The precocious boy wrote as if he had the experience of a much older man. However he said of himself:

“These premature prodigies of intelligence who become prodigies of stupidity after just a few years! Which family does not have its own prodigy? They have invented the word. Of course, child prodigies exist, just as there are extraordinary men. But they are rarely the same. Age means nothing. What astounds me is Rimbaud’s work, not the age at which he wrote it. All great poets have written by seventeen. The greatest are the ones who manage to make us forget it.

“When posed the question “Why do you write?” in a recent survey, Paul Valery answered “Out of weakness.”

“On the contrary, I believe that it would be weak not to write. Did Rimbaud stop writing because he doubted himself and wanted to take care of his memory? I do not think so. One can always do better. Timid writers who do not dare show their work until they have done better should not find in this an excuse for their weakness. For, in a subtler way, one can never do better and one can never do worse.”

 

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Jean Cocteau

 

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unknown

 

Radiguet by Picasso
Picasso

 

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Man Ray

 

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Juan Gris

 

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Jacques Lipchitz

 

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Roger de la Fresnaye

 

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Hugo Valentine

 

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Math Tinder

 

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Jean Cocteau

 

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‘There is in every madman a misunderstood genius whose idea, shining in his head, frightened people, and for whom delirium was the only solution to the strangulation that life had prepared for him.’ — Antonin Artaud

‘Being sober on a bus is, like, totally different than being drunk on a bus.’ — Ozzy Osbourne

‘The youth, intoxicated with his admiration of a hero, fails to see, that it is only a projection of his own soul, which he admires.’ — Ralph Waldo Emerson

‘All the mistakes I’ve ever made in my life have been when I’ve been drunk. I haven’t made hardly any mistakes sober, ever, ever.’ — Tracey Emin

‘It’s kind of fun to do the impossible.’ — Walt Disney

‘People don’t deserve the restraint we show by not going into delirium in front of them.’ — Louis-Ferdinand Celine

‘Perversity is the muse of modern literature.’ — Susan Sontag

‘My peers, lately, have found companionship through means of intoxication–it makes them sociable. I, however, cannot force myself to use drugs to cheat on my loneliness–it is all that I have.’ — Franz Kafka

‘The obese is in a total delirium. For he is not only large, of a size opposed to normal morphology: he is larger than large. He no longer makes sense in some distinctive opposition, but in his excess, his redundancy.’ — Jean Baudrillard

‘Oh! the little fly drunk at the urinal of a country inn, in love with rotting weeds, a ray of light dissolves him!’ — Arthur Rimbaud

‘I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they’ve always worked for me.’ — Hunter S. Thompson

‘Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of the intelligence.’ — Edgar Allan Poe

‘I don’t do drugs. I am drugs.’ — Salvador Dali

‘Every extension of knowledge arises from making the conscious the unconscious.’ — Friedrich Nietzsche

 

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‘Many years ago, my then-8-year-old friend Spencer asked a prominent jazz musician for an autograph, but when he was given the usual signature, he scolded, “Not your name… Mine!” Following his lead, I’ve been asking writers, artists, politicians, and movie stars to sign my John Hancock, er, Paul Schmelzer. So far more than 70 have agreed…’ — Paul Schmelzer

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Mikhail Baryshnikov

 

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Jimmy Carter

 

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Charlie Daniels

 

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Dan Castellenata

 

Ed Ruscha
Ed Ruscha

 

ErrolMorris
Errol Morris

 

FatsDomino
Fats Domino

 

Frank Gehry
Frank Gehry

 

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Mr. Rogers

 

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Isabel Allende

 

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Jeff Tweedy

 

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Barbara Kingslover

 

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Kweisi Mifune

 

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Laurie Anderson

 

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Matthew Barney

 

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Naomi Klein

 

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Robert Wilson

 

Thurston Moore
Thurston Moore

 

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Wim Wenders

 

WolfgangPuck
Wolfgang Puck

 

YokoOno
Yoko Ono

 

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The Hotel

The two knights suggest to the king that he take the hero

into his confidence. The pantomimes are spaced to accommodate them.

It is a work of great beauty. It is night. Four boys

remain on the scene. They choose four girls. This is what happens:

Her beauty and her brains work like fire. She is shocked

by his remark that he cannot spend too much time. We see grace of

body and mind being torn to pieces. Now begins the bitter aftermath.

Now the prayers of Orpheus are answered. It is the ancient

myth of Orpheus. Orpheus cannot console himself with his own song.

The song of the lyre is inadequate to his bereavement. Now he finishes

the song. Everything is green. Everything is splashed with color.

— Tony Towle

 

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giphy

Vicious Coffee

‘A cup of iced coffee at an Adelaide, Australian cafe called Vicious Coffee boasts 80 times more caffeine than a shot of espresso and 50 times more than a regular cup of coffee. That amount of caffeine is half the amount of a lethal dose.

‘It is recommended you take your time drinking a large, which should you should sip over four hours. Otherwise? RIP. The “high” will last you 12-18 hours. According to the USDA, a fluid ounce of espresso has 64 milligrams of caffeine and 95 milligrams in an 8-ounce cup of coffee. Vicious coffee, however, has 5 grams of caffeine.

‘According to the owner of the cafe, Steve Benington, “Some people love it and some are broken by it.” — Elite Daily

 

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Chocolates

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In 1934 a woman was charged with killing two children with strychnine laced chocolate.

In 1976 suspected terrorist, Wadia Haddad, died after allegedly being fed poisoned chocolate for six months by Mossad agents.

In 2006 a man killed his parents by serving them a chocolate mousse containing poison.

A woman fought with husband over a chocolate cake. She claimed she attempted to leave with the cake but her husband objected. They quarreled and she settled it by stabbing him to death.

In 1990 a man was charged with killing a 3-year-old girl by force-feeding her a chocolate cake. She choked to death.

An 82 year old man was attacked and robbed by thugs posing as chocolate salesmen. A week later he died of a heart attack.

A 75 year old heart patient was thrown to the ground by a drug addict. The addict was running with a box of stolen chocolate bars when the collision occurred. A month later the man died.

In 2008 a young man confronted a teenager who threw a partially eaten bar of chocolate into the window of his sister’s car. The confrontation escalated into a fight. The man later died from a head injury he received during the brawl.

In 1910 a young woman dies while trying to share her chocolate with her co-workers. She attempted to cut the bar in pieces and instead slipped and cut an artery in her leg.

In the 1960’s iron pills were chocolate coated. They resembled and tasted so much like candy that many young children ate them. None of those kids didn’t survive.

A man, dropping blocks of chocolate into a cauldron, died after falling in.

An employee of the South Bend Chocolate Company was found dead in a company machine.

A 19 year old man was found dead by his fellow employees. He had become submerged in a giant tank of molten chocolate.

A senior citizen left the Sydney hospital to buy a chocolate bar. His body was located a week later.

A 60 year old man’s body was found in the streets of Aberdeen, Scotland. The old gent was carrying a box chocolates. The police think he might have been going to visit someone when he died.

A man with an eating disorder crammed an entire Mars bar in his mouth and choked to death.

A girl choked to death on a chocolate swiss roll. Unfortunately she suffered from a congenital problem that made swallowing difficult.

Chocolate eggs containing toys caused the choking deaths of at least three children.

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Inhalable chocolate

 

 

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Stephen Shanabrook “Chocolate Box : Morgue”

 

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Chocolate Karl Lagerfeld boyfriend

 


Chocolate boat

 

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Chocolate larvae

 

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In an Osaka brothel, you can have snuff sex, whatever that means, with this chocolate prostitute for the equivalent of $10,000.

 

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World’s largest chocolate bunny

 


Chocolate ammo

 

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Chocolate-Avocado Cake

 


Julia Drouin ‘Disco Ghost’ (2013)

 

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Chocolate Grace Jones

 

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Frantz Kobe Sweets ‘Chocolate City’

 


Pink and white chocolate fountain

 

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Chocolate covered peeps w/ strange chemical reaction

 

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Michele Micha

 

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Chocolate anus
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*

p.s. Hey. ** politekid, Hi! So nice to see you! Uh, going to China and doing all of that stuff there hardly constitutes dull, well, at least from here (far away). Amazing! And how weird that the blog isn’t blocked there. I’m glad you’re back into writing, naturally. I was just in the US, and, yeah, same deal, politics is like breathing over there, although Halloween muffled it fairly well, I must say. I’m good. Stuff’s good. Right, that Friday event is a total mystery to me, which I guess is the idea. If you can come, cool, but if you can’t, total understandability. It’s hard to recommend the event since who knows what film and what introduction by me that we’re all going to be subjected to. Friday’s nuts, but maybe on Saturday before I head back? You don’t still work at the Tate, do you? I might pop in there on Friday depending on time and the friends I’m seeing’s ideas about what our time together should involve. Really, really good to see you! Hope I get lucky and see you in the big L. ** David Ehrenstein, My pleasure, of course. ** Nik, Hey, man! I’ve been wondering what you’re up to and how you’re doing, and now I know. And you sound great, and what you’re doing sounds really great! You sound strong about your writing. That’s superb news. And that the Conjunctions work is fruitful. Obviously great if you can score those Carrington translations. I haven’t seen the Ruiz adaptation, but Ruiz is an excellent filmmaker so I would imagine it’s worth watching, yes. Thanks about my novel. It’s in the seeking a publisher phase, and hopefully not for too much longer. I actually really enjoyed going back into the novel and working on it and finishing it. Much more than I thought I would. Maybe I’m not over writing novels after all. We’ll see. The Home Haunt sojourn was a big success. We got 39 of them under our belts, and I think we’re pretty full of consequent ideas about how to stage the one in our film. Yeah, cool to see you! Keep me up on anything and everything when the time and inclination strike. Hugs. ** Sypha, Hi, James. I know about the ChiZine controversy. There are a fair number of Facebook friends weighing in on that and sharing links and stuff. No one’s being too grandstand-y about it, but a couple of ‘friends’ were among those victimised and pulling their product. Sounds grisly. ** Barkley, Hi, B. How’s it going? Stoney Pointe and Salem: EtC were definitely among the very best haunts we visited. Possibly the top two even. So good idea and imagination you got there. I like the Child’s Play franchise. Or I did when it was in my presence. Probably still would. Sure, almost certainly if memory equals accuracy. I didn’t see that newest reboot one. Did that one factor into your marathon? My favorite Rimbaud translation is Enid Peschel’s. She only translated ‘Season in Hell’ and ‘Illuminations’ in one volume. This one. That book is great if they have it. In general, otherwise, Starkie’s translations are quite good. The collected translation I would avoid is Paul Schmidt’s. Those aren’t good. This one is better amongst the ‘collected’ books. Happy day! ** Steve Erickson, Hi. I didn’t see a full-length online version of the Ruiz film when I was making that post. Not to say there isn’t, but, if so, it didn’t come up in my search. Fast turnover on that interview. You’re good. Survive the cold. It’s cold here — hailed violently for about 15 minutes yesterday — but nothing drastic yet. ** N, Hi. Oh, glad I figured that out. I don’t think there would be a lot of difference between the versions of the piece unless I’m misremembering. Anyway, thank you again! How are you? ** Okay. I decided to dig out this old thematic array-style post from the dead blog for you today. I don’t remember why. Hope it proves diggable. See you tomorrow.

Spotlight on … Sadegh Hedayat The Blind Owl (1937)

 

‘Perhaps no other modern Iranian writer has been claimed by his countrymen more than Sadegh Hedayat has. Born in Tehran in 1903 to an aristocratic family, Hedayat studied in Paris and went on to become one of the founders of modern fiction in Iran. And while he had a wide range—he wrote nationalist plays, satire, and both realist and surrealist fiction—he is most recognized for his novel The Blind Owl. Published in 1937 in a limited edition in India, where Hedayat was then living, the novel appeared in Iran in 1941 and went on to have a tumultuous existence in the hands of Iran’s ubiquitous censors. Translated into multiple languages, it has been reissued in the United States by Grove Press, with a 1957 translation by D. P. Costello and a poignant introduction by Porochista Khakpour.

‘A tale of one man’s isolation, the novel contains a maze of symbols, recurring images, social commentary, allusions to opium-induced states, contemplations of the human condition, interjections on art, and references to literary and religious texts—all of which have, for decades, made it fertile ground for critical interpretation. The most long-standing theory was espoused by the Iranian Communist Party (Tudeh), with which Hedayat for a time sympathized. The Tudeh’s claim was that the black mood in the book is an allusion to life under Reza Shah, who ruled Iran from 1925 until 1941. But as scholar Homa Katouzian points out in Sadeq Hedayat: The Life and Legend of an Iranian Writer, while Hedayat did oppose the shah’s tyrannical reign, the book is a far more universal statement about alienation. Often compared to the work of Franz Kafka (whom Hedayat admired), The Blind Owl also brings to mind Fernando Pessoa’s The Book of Disquiet in its stark meditation on dejection.

‘“There are sores which slowly erode the mind in solitude like a kind of canker,” begins the book, and in the pages that ensue we glimpse this solitude, through the narrator’s room, which “stands upon the ruins of thousands of ancient houses… like a tomb”; through the landscape of “crouching, accursed trees,” between which there are “ash-grey houses” where “no living creature could ever have dwelt”; and through the narrator’s estrangement from the “rabble-men” who bear “an expression of greed on their faces, in pursuit of money and sexual satisfaction.”

‘An ethereal girl appearing throughout offers hope. She is the image the narrator paints on his pen cases, a vision he falls in love with, and the portrait on an ancient jar, inside “an almond-shaped panel” (perhaps a reference to a mandorla, an almond-shaped contour found around images of Mary—the almond representing virgin birth). But the girl has a “double nature,” resurfacing as the narrator’s cunning mother, and, later, as his promiscuous wife.

‘Any discussion of Hedayat would be incomplete without mention of his suicide, by gassing, in 1951 in Paris—an event that has overshadowed his work.

‘On April 9, 1951, Sadegh Hedayat entered his rented apartment in Paris, plugged all the doors and windows with cotton, and then turned on the gas valve to liberate himself from all the wounds that had been gnawing on him in seclusion. Two days later, his body was found by police, with a note left behind for his friends and companions that read: “I left and broke your heart. That is all.” The prominent Iranian writer and intellectual had torn up all his unpublished work a few days before his suicide.’ — Dalia Sofer

 

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Talking with a Shadow (2006)

Documentary about the life and works of Sadegh Hedayat. It follows a teacher, a researcher, and a journalist as they discuss some of Hedayat’s most famous works and their influences. The film intermixes the three conversing along with a narrated history of the author with images.

Watch the film here

 

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Further

Sadegh Hedayat’s Corner 
Sadegh Hedayat Tribute Page 
‘This Book Will End Your Life’@ The Rumpus 
Sadegh Hedayat @ Les éditions José Corti 
‘Sadeq Hedayat’s Heritage’ 
Sadegh Hedayat’s ‘Davood the Hunchback’ 
Sadegh Hedayat Page (in Iranian) 
‘The Symbolism of Women in The Blind Owl’ 
‘The Blind Owl’ @ Resistance is Futile 
‘Poisons and Remedies in The Blind Owl’ 
‘What is left for me from Sadegh Hedayat?’ 
Buy ‘The Blind Owl’

 

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Media


Naked Solitude: Sadegh Hedayat


‘The Blind Owl’, an extract


Omar Khayyam-Sadegh Hedayat


Tomb of Sadegh Hedayat

 

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Adaptation

Raoul Ruiz La Chouette Aveugle (1987)
‘A projectionist falls in love with a dancer that he sees onscreen and finds echoes of his own life in the images he projects. Everything changes when fiction and reality merge… For Ruiz, La Chouette aveugle was not so much an adaptation as an adoption of the novel written by Sadegh Hedayat. Free composition in a labyrinthine narrative, this explosion of imagination and creation celebrates the fantastical power of cinema in a fictional continuity, mixing past and present, dream and reality. An existential work as well as gigantic hoax, this flamboyant, this baroque jewel is as enchanting as it is extravagant.’ — pariscinema.org


Excerpts

 

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Book

Sadegh Hedayat The Blind Owl
Grove Press

‘Plot summary: The narrator, a pen-case decorator, falls in love with a girl who is at once angelic and devilish. Later, the girl appears by his doorstep, enters his house, and lies on his bed, where she dies. He cuts up her body and buries her. The narrator, seemingly in a past life, recounts his mental and physical decline following his marriage to a woman who refuses to have sex with him but has countless lovers. He accidentally kills her; Main characters: the narrator (present and past), the girl/narrator’s mother/narrator’s wife, an old peddler/narrator’s father/narrator’s uncle, a butcher;? Representative sentence: “If I have now made up my mind to write it is only in order to reveal myself to my shadow.”’ — The Believer

 

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Excerpt

There are sores which slowly erode the mind in solitude like a kind of canker.

It is impossible to convey a just idea of the agony which this disease can inflict. In general, people are apt to relegate such inconceivable sufferings to the category of the incredible. Any mention of them in conversation or in writing is considered in the light of current beliefs, the individual’s personal beliefs in particular, and tends to provoke a smile of incredulity and derision. The reason for this incomprehension is that mankind has not yet discovered a cure for this disease. Relief from it is to be found only in the oblivion brought about by wine and in the artificial sleep induced by opium and similar narcotics. Alas, the effects of such medicines are only temporary. After a certain point, instead of alleviating the pain, they only intensify it.

Will anyone ever penetrate the secret of this disease which transcends ordinary experience, this reverberation of the shadow of the mind, which manifests itself in a state of coma like that between death and resurrection, when one is neither asleep nor awake?

I propose to deal with only one case of this disease. It concerned me personally and it so shattered my entire being that I shall never be able to drive the thought of it out of my mind. The evil impression which it left has, to a degree that surpasses human understanding, poisoned my life for all time to come. I said “poisoned”: I should have said that I have ever since borne, and will bear for ever, the brand mark of that cautery.

I shall try to set down what I can remember, what has remained in my mind of the sequence of events. I may perhaps be able to draw a general conclusion from it all – but no, that is too much to expect. I may hope to be believed by others or at least to convince myself; for, after all, it does not matter to me whether others believe me or not. My one fear is that tomorrow I may die without having come to know myself. In the course of my life I have discovered that a fearful abyss lies between me and other people and have realized that my best course is to remain silent and keep my thoughts to myself for as long as I can. If I have now made up my mind to write it is only in order to reveal myself to my shadow, that shadow which at this moment is stretched across the wall in the attitude of one devouring with insatiable appetite each word I write. It is for his sake that I wish to make the attempt. Who knows? We may perhaps come to know each other better. Ever since I broke the last ties which held me to the rest of mankind, my one desire has been to attain a better knowledge of myself.

Idle thoughts! Perhaps. Yet they torment me more savagely than any reality could do. Do not the rest of mankind who look like me, who appear to have the same needs and the same passion as I, exist only in order to cheat me? Are they not a mere handful of shadows which have come into existence only that they may mock and cheat me? Is not everything that I feel, see and think something entirely imaginary, something utterly different from reality?

I am writing only for my shadow, which is now stretched across the wall in the light of the lamp. I must make myself known to him.

In this mean world of wretchedness and misery I thought that for once a ray of sunlight had broken upon my life. Alas, it was not sunlight but a passing gleam, a falling star, which flashed upon me, in the form of a woman – or of an angel. In its light, in the course of a second, of a single moment, I beheld all the wretchedness of my existence and apprehended the glory and splendour of the star. After, that brightness disappeared again in the whirlpool of darkness in which it was bound inevitably to disappear. I was unable to retain that passing gleam.

It is three months – no, it is two months and four days – since I lost her from sight but the memory of those magic eyes, of the fatal radiance of those eyes, has remained with me at all times. How can I forget her, who is so intimately bound up with my own existence?

No, I shall never utter her name. For now, with her slender, ethereal, misty form, her great, shining, wondering eyes, in the depths of which my life has slowly and painfully burned and melted away, she no longer belongs to this mean, cruel world. No, I must not defile her name by contact with earthly things.

After she had gone I withdrew from the company of man, from the company of the stupid and the successful and, in order to forget, took refuge in wine and opium. My life passed, and still passes, within the four walls of my room. All my life has passed within four walls.

I used to work through the day, decorating the covers of pen cases. Or, rather, I spent on my trade of pen-case decorator the time that I did not devote to wine and opium. I had chosen this ludicrous trade of pen-case decorator only in order to stupefy myself, in order somehow or other to kill time.

I am fortunate in that the house where I live is situated beyond the edge of the city in a quiet district far from the noise and bustle of life. It is completely isolated and around it lie ruins. Only on the far side of the gully one can see a number of squat mud-brick houses which mark the extreme limit of the city. They must have been built by some fool or madman heaven knows how long ago. When I shut my eyes not only can I see every detail of their structure but I seem to feel the weight of them pressing on my shoulders. They are the sort of houses which one finds depicted only on the covers of ancient pen cases.

I am obliged to set all this down on paper in order to disentangle the various threads of my story. I am obliged to explain it all for the benefit of my shadow on the wall. Yes, in the past only one consolation, and that a poor one, remained to me. Within the four walls of my room I painted my pictures on the pen cases and thereby, thanks to this ludicrous occupation of mine, managed to get through the day. But when once I had seen those two eyes, once I had seen her, activity of any sort lost all meaning, all content, all value for me.

I would mention a strange, an incredible thing. For some reason unknown to me the subject of all my painting was from the very beginning one and the same. It consisted always of a cypress tree at the foot of which was squatting a bent old man like an Indian fakir. He had a long cloak wrapped about him and wore a turban on his head. The index finger of his left hand was pressed to his lips in a gesture of surprise. Before him stood a girl in a long black dress, leaning towards him and offering him a flower of morning glory. Between them ran a little stream. Had I seen the subject of this picture at some time in the past or had it been revealed to me in a dream? I do not know. What I do know is that whenever I sat down to paint I reproduced the same design, the same subject. My hand independently of my will always depicted the same scene. Strangest of all, I found customers for these paintings of mine. I even dispatched some of my pen-case covers to India through the intermediary of my paternal uncle, who used to sell them and remit the money to me.

Somehow I always felt this subject to be remote and, at the same time, curiously familiar to me. I don’t remember very well… It occurs to me that I once said to myself that I must write down what I remember of all this – but that happened much later and has nothing to do with the subject of my painting. Moreover, one consequence of this experience was that I gave up painting altogether. That was two months, or, rather exactly, two months and four days ago.

 

 

*

p.s. Hey. ** David Ehrenstein, Hi. Bizarre but very canny (if wildly impractical) in a way. Thanks for the Nabokov/Pivot link. Ha, Stubby Kaye isn’t a name I’ve heard spoken or even seen written since my parents were young. Flashback. ** Steve Erickson, The 17th Door was extremely well done. Well, basically you’re led/rushed through a series of doors, numbered 1 to 17 obviously, whereupon are suddenly thrust into the midst of various scenarios. In one room, you and fellow guests are lined up against a wall facing bright, kind of blinding lights, a hood is put over your head, told you’re going to be executed by firing squad, and shortly thereafter you start getting shot from head to toe with these tiny pellets that hurt a little bit. That stops, and you’re de-hooded and rushed to the next door. Several doors later, you enter a room and are told you are to execute some people, at which point you see a later group of guests hooded and lined up against a wall. So you realise you had been executed by earlier haunt guests. You’re given a gun full of plastic pellets and you execute the people standing there until your pellets run out, then you’re rushed through the next door. I haven’t heard 100 gecs, but the comparison to Skrillex will probably prevent from ever trying them out. Ugh. Ah, year end lists. You’re starting early, for sure. ** Brendan, Hi, B! Yes, it is very sad about Stephen Dixon. A fantastic, very good, very singular writer. A real loss. I think I did a spotlight post one of his novels years ago that I need to restore. Very nice NYC visit there. And awesome about the Zorn gig. I’ve never seen him live, very strangely. He comes through Paris in various incarnations fairly often, and I really need to catch him. I’m good. You sound really good. ** Bill, Thanks. I’m waiting to hear from our producer if we need to do any last tweaks to the documents. They’re due to the CNC (government funding agency) today. Sold out? Even without much publicity? Must be the robots. All those hungry SRL fans or something. ** _Black_Acrylic, Hi, Ben. Swell news about the busy zine fest and ‘Call’ dispersing. ** Misanthrope, Hi. Yep, sad, sad. I don’t think I remember any of KIX’s songs. Off the top of my head. I suppose if I youtube-searched them, I’d go, ‘oh right, them’. Whatever works. Fun is invaluable. Yeah, I’m one who needs 8 hours of sleep or else I felt varying degrees of shitty. Even getting 7 and 3/4 hours, I feel the missing 15 minutes of snooze time. ** N, Hi, N. Welcome! Wow, Forehead. I remember that magazine. Hm, I don’t remember, but I’m thinking that if the story of mine was called ‘David’, it was probably the second chapter of my novel ‘Closer’, which I think is the only fiction thing I’ve written that would have ‘David’ in the title. So my guess is if you get or have a copy of ‘Closer’ and go to Chapter 2, that should be it? Unless I’m blanking out. I hope that helps. Thank you a lot for asking. ** Armando, Hi. There must be — or probably is — a ‘walk-through’ video of the Zombie maze on youtube somewhere? I’ll be in London for just about 24 hours. I’m doing an event there on Friday night. This event. Excellent beyond excellent about your new psychiatrist! I hope that continues to go well and increasingly well. Today, me … other than any last fiddling I might need to do with the funding application docs before they’re due late afternoon, not too much. Go see some art probably. Yeah, probably that. Work on my new gif novel a bit maybe. Phoners with friends. Nothing too dramatic. Your yesterday? ** Right. I’m spotlighting a superb novel today if you don’t already know it. See you tomorrow.

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