Yes, it’s even better than The Passion. Why? Because the aphorisms here do not push for a certain resolution. They are what they are. More at
ease with themselves. They are it, as she says repeatedly. It being something so essential, so real, so basic, that it defies naming beyond it. It just is.
The work is short. Too short. Just 88 pages. Edited posthumously by Olga Borelli and newly translated by Stefan Tobler. But it can and should be read over and over again. It’s thick with bright language gems and shockingly obvious surprises. As in, I read her, noted with wonder her startlingly original conceptions, but then said, yeah. . . . Read more. “Clarice Lispector’s Agua Viva”
Writing without plot. Writing about writing. Each word, each sentence, each paragraph like an explosive compulsion. An aphorism of despair and delight. Clarice Lispector wrote as if her life depended upon it. As if she couldn’t help herself. And though her chaos was contained and expressed through words, the result was not chaos. It was poetry.
Clarice Lispector (1920-1977) was born Jewish in what is now the Ukraine. To escape from the frequent pogroms there, her family fled to resettle in Brazil, via Romania, when Clarice was not yet two. She wrote in Portuguese, considered herself Brazilian through and through, and is considered by some to be among the greatest writers of the 20th century in that language. . . . Read more. “The Passion According to G.H.”
For February, Spinozablue brings its readers new poetry from Breda Wall Ryan, Damien Healy and Donal Mahoney, as well as fiction from Rosemary Jones. A pattern of Celtic voices by coincidence, not design — with an Asian twist.
* * * * *
Recently finished Peter Englund’s excellent history of WWI, The Beauty and the Sorrow. What makes this book so special for me is the democracy of voices, the voices on the ground and in the skies, the deeply personal quality of their journals and letters. Englund brings us a mix of soldiers, nurses, activists, journalists and pilots, and tells their stories using their own words and circumstances. . . . Read more. “Sky Mixing”
The icy wind rushes around and bites exposed skin. Tomorrow will be spring but it still feels like the middle of winter. Throw soy beans in every corner to exercise evil demons. Command them to leave at the entrance and welcome in good fortune. Consume your age in hardened soy beans plus one ensuring another year of life. A mouthful of rolled sushi for dinner. Quietly facing the lucky direction, all chew in unison. Smelly grilled sardines keep wandering demons at bay. An absolute nightmare for cats.
This morning, a new portion of sky. A piece of skylight blue that has travelled like a package in a freighter from an indeterminate field of orbit to land on my window sill.
No address. No note attached from the sky mixer responsible. Scrutinize closely for evidence. This piece of sky is an elemental blue, the kind I’ve seen perhaps once or twice before. A rare breed, shunted off from a vaulted dome where it may have nursed a desert town in the middle of the southern hemisphere. At first glance, the arrival appears uncomfortable, self-conscious. Dabs of bluer blush. A tinge of barely recognizable scarlet. . . . Read more. “Rosemary Jones: Notes to an Apprentice Sky Mixer”
————————————————————– Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had work published in a variety of print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.