The ever inventive and unruly Max Fleischer, all wobble and flicker, all romp and sheesh!
Being a member of a [particular] party is not an obstacle. One may still be honest, correct, and capable of representing the people as a whole.
Maybe he doesn't want to. Once elected the President is officially independent. It's his business how he goes about representing national unity...The President of the country should be someone with values but, at the same time, capable of understanding other people's values. Áder fits both these descriptions.
You can't possibly say that about Áder, a figure regarded as the Charles Bronson of the angling world, not one of the elite but a man of the people...[On registering the scepticism of the interviewer] I'm sure you'll come round to him in due course.
Thank God parliament is full of representatives whose job is to write laws...If we make a mistake we put it right. We shouldn't forget that there has been an acceleration in legislative procedure. There is some justice in what what you say but we need to take quick decisions.
Most unfortunate. The electorate voted them into parliament nevertheless a party with a two-thirds majority should not regard such a party as fit for dialogue. Not with the Jobbik whose representatives have made the kind of statements we have heard these last two weeks. [He means the strongly anti-Semitic speeches, references to the blood libel and the questioning of the Holocaust].And did you say as much to your colleagues in the party?
They didn't agree with me.
[Such attacks] are only a problem in our society. They are everyday practice in the West.
That's not what history shows us. Someone who was a beneficiary of the Kádár system, enjoying all its advantages, should not go around telling people how bad that system was. History must be on the losers' side. Schiffer's family benefited from the old system. This is a matter of credibility.But why not discuss Schiffer's proposals [rather than make ad hominem attacks]?
Unlike Schiffer I was in Vásarhely revealing the names of seven hundred agents of the state with all the risks that entailed. I didn't make a big noise about it. Schiffer tried to make political capital out of that. If he does that he shouldn't be surprised when he is criticised...Schiffer's case shows how the left-liberal elite will not tolerate any opinion other than its own. [He then launches an attack on 'the sickening lies' of the 1989 change of system that, he asserts, failed to deal with ex-agents of the state]
|Not of Thursday's debate|
...that we may wonder all over again what is veritable and inevitable and possible and what it is to become whoever we may be - Diane Arbus
The Mystic Barber teleports himself to Mars. Another carries
a noose and a rose wherever he goes. A third collects string
for twenty years. A fourth is a disinherited king,
the Emperor of Byzantium. A fifth ferries
the soul of the dead across the Acheron. There's a certain abandon
in asking, Can I come home with you?
like a girl who is well brought up, as she was, in a fashion,
who seems to trust everyone and is just a little crazy,
just enough to be charming, who walks between fantasy
and betrayal and makes of this a kind of profession.
It takes courage to destroy the ledge you stand on,
to sit on the branch you saw through
or to fly down the stairs like Lartigue's Bichonnade
while the balustrade marches sturdily upward, and laughter
bubbles through the mouth like air through water,
and the light whistles by, unstoppable, hard
and joyful, though there is nothing to land on
but the flying itself, the flying perfect and new.
The Owens are in Ireland, father chooses unfamiliar way through dense woods. Something 'large & animal like moving ... along a branch. They all see it. Wilfred trembling. Suddenly heavy rain then stops. Mother 'desperate' to..get out of wood. They are surrounded by cloudburst vapour. They walk between trees down seemingly endless tunnel...and suddenly come to clearing with 'what appeared to be a sheet of water'. High wall of mist cuts across in...perfect straight line, some menacing sense of danger. Father says it's all nonsense & walks ahead, they follow...noticing mist & water receding at precisely the pace they're walking. All trembling now. Father moves...ahead, water & mist retreat before him. Mother turns & screams. 10 yards behind shadowy figure of a tall..man, radiating same 'cold incandescent quality' as the lake. All feel 'desperately insecure'. Father...addresses the man. Man contorts 'into a frenzy of fury' raising his stick. Father speaks again to same...effect, another paroxysm. Father angry walks towards man who retreats keeping precisely same distance as if...the pair were synchronized. When father retreats figure comes forward etc. Father advances fiercely. Figure disappears...Mother cries, 'Tom, Tom, come back'. Father stands motionless, returns depressed. Lake has disappeared...
...My heart is perched on nothing’s branch,
a small, dumb, shivering event:
the gentle stars jostle and bunch
and gaze on in astonishment.
Fat Drops of Rain...
Fat drops of rain on the roof,
Cluck on old hen, brood me time,
hatch me some of that.
Produce the eggs, sweet mamma,
that any mother lays,
delicious soft blue, green,
and scarlet days.
I’ll wait for you. I’ve got no cash.
There’s nothing I can buy.
My heartbeat shakes me as I feel
your fluffy feathers fly.
It beats and shakes. I hear it,
gloomy, proud, aloof.
The thoughts of a tramp beneath
a first class carriage roof.
The silent machine
A hallgatag gép
Look, the silent machine has arrived
and rolls on across hulks that are still squealing.
The medium groans. Now, through the masses
come ranks of workers wheeling.
It’s hard work. How can they squeeze through
when white-eyed gods in an advanced state
of decomposition, stand either side, to watch
bankers flit in and out at the gate?
The hoops of the world are cracking.
We’ll found a workers’ state of refined steel -
on a bed of polished rock
and see its symbol flitter across lined faces
like a snatch of song through a tenement block.
May the butcher’s hefty cleaver
Dagadt hentes bárdja
May the hefty butcher’s cleaver slice you open
so the snow falls down the gaping wound in your back,
tyrant of trembling hands and witless cack.
Airs for William Diaper
Here is a young fellow has writ some Sea Eclogues, poems of Mermen, resembling pastorals of shepherds, and they are very pretty, and the thought is new. Mermen are he-mermaids; Tritons, natives of the sea. Do you understand me? I think to recommend him to our Society to-morrow. His name is Diaper.
– Jonathan Swift, Journal to Stella
My child, listen. When you and I arrived
fresh from our mothers’ wombs we floundered
in red air and bawled our guts out, shocked
by everything: the fearsome slap of hands
we could not see, the barbarity of cold
we needed wrapping against; the light that pressed
hard fingers against our firmly shut eyes
though we did not know it. Air was dangerous,
the terrible air we needed for survival
yet needed first to survive. And you and I
we were together in this as was the one
who nurtured you in darkness, eely, frothed
and struggling like Blake’s babe ready to sulk,
the alien familiar as we are still, my child,
you with your closed heart and I with mine.
He came to visit Swift who said: “It is a poor
little short wretch but will do best in a gown,”
though later he called at Diaper’s door
and found him “in a nasty garret, very sick”
in an admittedly poor part of town,
so gave him “twenty guineas from Lord Bolingbroke”
for his considerable gifts and knowledge,
as appropriate for a fellow of Balliol College.
A deep-sea fishiness is half of sex,
all wriggle, squirm, thrust, muscle, ooze and flex,
plus otherness and drowning as if this
were necessary to perfect our bliss.
Now fish, now slime, spermatozoa swim
from rampant pecker into depths of quim,
and so our eelets swell and drowse in heat
their limbs more fin than human hands or feet.
Too long in genial beds, we rise for air
as fish might rise for bait that soon must tear
the delicate mouth. Then watery substance parts:
light shoots barbed arrows through our fishy hearts.
To silver poets scaled in silver, gaining
the silver medal of the moon
like a delicate staining,
the small fry
unremarked and soon,
whose skin is pale and silvery as a pond,
whose hair is frond,
according to the slim chance
of names like Diaper, Edward Chicken, Stephen Duck
with a year or two of luck,
then greeted by no Gotterdammerung,
but by the greater silver
of John Crowe Ransom, Norman Cameron.
Wrote couplets enough to furnish a whole choir
of scales and fins. His objects of desire
were human beings coupling, pair by pair,
each doubled vision swimming through the air.
now twisting, now cording like rope:
warmest flesh, the perishable face
packed with hope.
My child I sometimes despair of the loss
of that which is not clear to the naked eye.
When I myself was a child the table rose
like a giant, its sharp edges sky-high.
I did not know sky from ceiling, my mother
from God. The words would open and close
their fishy gills by my microscopic ear
until I learned to distinguish one from the other.
And so I watched the wordlings shuffling across
the deep spaces of my attention like specks
cavorting within the dimensions of their sex,
smaller than I was but more sweet and clear.
Rene Magritte / liked his rum neat / and would never think of adding Cola. / He'd sooner eat his bowler.
Pierre-August Renoir / simply adored Film Noir / and kept nagging at Jean / 'Make your old dad a Film Noir! Aw, go on!'
Claude Monet / Resisted all forms of donné. / When someone suggested he should paint the cathedral at Rheims, / he replied, 'In your dreams!'
Georges Braque / decided to pickle a shark / as a kind of tableau, / but then left it to Pablo.
Michelangelo Buonarotti / woke up feeling grotty / having painted an enormous fresco / for Tesco.
Fra Filippo Lippi / was kinda dippy / but succeeded in laying tons / of nuns.
William Blake / worshipped Veronica Lake / but secretly thought The Blue Dahlia / something of a failure.
Dante Gabriel Rosetti / was never mean or petty, / though he would occasionally fiddle / with Lizzie Siddall.
Jacques-Louis David / refused to read / Karl Marx. / 'Too many sharks'.
J M W Turner / liked a nice little earner / and was untroubled by greed, / painting Rain, Steam AND Speed.
Jack B Yeats / told all his mates / to ignore his brother Willie. / 'Those bloody fairies are just too fecking silly.'
Antonio Canaletto / could sing falsetto / but once he was off his face / he growled in bass.
The Day Lady Died
It is 12:20 in New York a Friday
three days after Bastille day, yes
it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine
because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton
at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner
and I don’t know the people who will feed me
I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun
and have a hamburger and a malted and buy
an ugly new world writing to see what the poets
in Ghana are doing these days
I go on to the bank
and Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard)
doesn’t even look up my balance for once in her life
and in the golden griffin I get a little Verlaine
for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do
think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or
Brendan Behan’s new play or Le Balcon or Les Nègres
of Genet, but I don’t, I stick with Verlaine
after practically going to sleep with quandariness
and for Mike I just stroll into the park lane
Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega and
then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue
and the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatre and
casually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a carton
of Picayunes, and a new york post with her face on it
and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of
leaning on the john door in the 5 spot
while she whispered a song along the keyboard
to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing.