Tumgik
#Fleur Jaeggy
rosepompadour · 1 year
Quote
She was one of those girls who should have had a different life.
Fleur Jaeggy, Sweet Days of Discipline
1K notes · View notes
yourdearestenemyluke · 2 months
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
I Am the Brother of XX by Fleur Jaeggy // the sorrow festival by erin slaughter// Monster Movie by Nicola Maye Goldberg // Unicorn by Angela Carter // History of my brief body, Billy-Ray Belcourt // Lucerys Velaryon and Aemond Targaryen, House of the dragon
76 notes · View notes
virgin-martyr · 8 months
Text
After that we became inseparable. Like an illness. 
Fleur Jaeggy, excerpt from "Agnes" of I Am the Brother of XX
59 notes · View notes
motifcollector · 3 months
Text
... We saw life pass by beneath our windows, observed it in books and on our walks, watched the seasons change. It was always a reflection, a reflection that seemed to freeze on our windowsills. 
Fleur Jaeggy, Sweet Days of Discipline, trans. Tim Parks
11 notes · View notes
Text
Adieu, un suono breve e morigerato. Gli addii hanno lontane progeniture e i paesaggi li coprono di sterpaglia e polvere.
10 notes · View notes
aschenblumen · 5 months
Text
¿Quién era? Para mí no era nadie, y sin embargo tengo presentes su fisonomía y su cuerpo. Tal vez aquellos a los que no prestamos atención resurgen por un extraño juego maligno. Sus facciones se nos quedan más grabadas que las de aquellos que hemos tenido en cuenta. Nuestra mente es una serie de nichos. Nuestros nadies acuden a la llamada, criaturas voraces se yerguen a veces como buitres en las fisonomías de los que hemos amado. Una multitud de rostros habita en los nichos, rico alimento. La muchacha alemana, mientras escribo, dibuja, como en una comisaría de policía, sus rasgos. ¿Cuál es su nombre? Su nombre ha desaparecido. Pero no basta con olvidar un nombre para olvidar al ser. Todo está allí, en el nicho.
—Fleur Jaeggy, Los hermosos años del castigo. Traducción de Juana Bignozzi.
6 notes · View notes
knifeeater · 1 year
Photo
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Mari Asato Fatal Frame | Fleur Jaeggy Sweet Days of Discipline | Jacqueline Audry Olivia | Peter Weir Picnic at Hanging Rock
16 notes · View notes
elena-ferrante · 8 months
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
5 notes · View notes
mosscollector · 9 months
Text
There is something absolute and impregnable in certain people, it’s like a distance from the world, from the living, but it’s also somehow the sign of someone confronting a power we know nothing of.
Fleur Jaeggy, Sweet Days of Discipline
5 notes · View notes
ninjavolador · 6 months
Text
Tumblr media
Fleur Jaeggy
2 notes · View notes
higherentity · 2 years
Photo
Tumblr media
15 notes · View notes
loneberry · 2 years
Text
Alice Oswald on Keat’s Ode on a Grecian Urn
Tumblr media
Listen to Alice Oswald read her gorgeous essay on Keat’s Ode on a Grecian Urn, quietness, reading, Beckett, poetic form, grief, writing, trauma, orality and breath, music, the Parthenon frieze, time, and Homer (BBC / Spotify).
It’s a pity there are so few recordings of Alice Oswald reading (I’m told it’s because she believes so passionately about poetry as a performative oral tradition that she does not allow recordings of her poetry readings)—I could literally listen to her all day.
https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m0001xjk
From Fleur Jaeggy’s essay on John Keats in These Possible Lives:
Keats was overcome by sleep and [Joseph] Severn drew a portrait of Keats’s head on his pillow, eyes closed, face hollowed, a few curls glued to his forehead with cold sweat. Then transcribed Keats’s words, his last testimony. Severn was in the presence of a great poet. He may have been already thinking that one day he would be buried beside him. He’d been to visit the Protestant cemetery near the Pyramid of Cestius, its grounds were glazed over with violets and it seemed that Keats liked the spot. He said he would feel the flowers grow over him. Severn knew that violets were Keats’s favorite flower. He plucked for him a just budded rose, a winter rose. Keats received it darkly and said “I hope to no longer be alive in spring.” He wanted what he called in his last letter a “posthumous existence” to come to an end. Inscribed on his gravestone: “Here lies one whose name was writ in water.” His words are set into the stone as if on a mirror, touching everything and not touched by anything — strange asymmetry.
After reading the Jaeggy essay on Keats as outsider-mystic, I started reading Anahid Nersessian’s Keats's Odes: A Lover's Discourse, which offers a materialist and political reading of Keats. I thought about Anne Carson’s The Beauty of the Husband, a meditation on Keats and the nature of truth in relation to the beautiful but perfidious lover. (Such wildly divergent readings made me think that Keats is a kind of Rorschach inkblot that activates different parts of our psyches. Maybe all poetry is. Maybe that’s what Jaeggy is touching on when she describes Keats’s words as mirror.)
9 notes · View notes
virgin-martyr · 8 months
Text
I had a passion for sleep. For those twelve hours of absolute immobility. For those twelve hours of absolute distance from the world. Twelve hours of gentle, o so sweet burial. My body does not dream. It is not there.
Fleur Jaeggy, excerpt from "I Am the Brother of XX" of I Am the Brother of XX
52 notes · View notes
motifcollector · 3 months
Text
... I still thought that to get something you had to go straight for your goal, whereas it is only distractions, uncertainty, distance that bring us closer to our targets, and then it is the target which strikes us. 
Fleur Jaeggy, Sweet Days of Discipline, trans. Tim Parks
3 notes · View notes
Text
Molte possiedono diari. Con le chiavi. Pensano di possedere la loro vita... ai diari chiusi a chiave come a dei morti, quasi non distinguendo tra un essere umano e la carta e la calligrafia. Mi sembra, come per i morti, di aver lasciato in sospeso qualcosa, una conversazione, e quella conversazione continuiamo a tenerla, rivolgendoci agli scomparsi, anche se una certa smemoratezza ci accompagna nel vegliare le conversazioni mancate. Se i loro visi si dimenticano, se alcuni tratti sbiadiscono, come se fossero stati dipinti, rimangono solo le voci, una specie di monologo, che crediamo senza risposta. Ma, da qualche parte, rispondono.
7 notes · View notes
aschenblumen · 5 months
Text
Sabía que Frédérique no escribiría. Pero perseveraba en el placer de llegar hasta el fondo de la tristeza, como en un despecho. El placer del desasosiego. No me resultaba nuevo. Lo apreciaba desde que tenía ocho años, interna en el primer colegio, religioso. Y pensaba que a lo mejor habían sido los años más bellos. Los años del castigo. Hay una exaltación, ligera pero constante, en los años del castigo, en los hermosos años del castigo.
—Fleur Jaeggy, Los hermosos años del castigo. Traducción de Juana Bignozzi.
6 notes · View notes