Текущее: Кромер завтра

Завтра утром уезжаем в Кромер до воскресенья, и я пока что не верю в реальность Кромера зимой. Вот завтра и проверю.

“This Deleuzian Century“ by Ian Buchanan (Edinburgh University Press blog)

But of course I read it as “delusional”; my bad, I guess. The rest is ... well, you decide, lol.

There are, I think, two explanations one might give to explain the broad appeal of Deleuze’s thought. The first trivial, but not therefore wrong, and the second historical, but not easily demonstrated. The trivial answer is that Deleuze’s work has never demanded that anyone adhere to a particular methodology or way of thinking; on the contrary, he exhorts everyone to strike out on their own and do their own thing. There could hardly be a form of thought that was more consonant with the self-centered imperatives of late capitalism than this! Which is why it is a trivial and something of a dangerous answer, since it seems to confirm the damning indictments of Zizek and others who regard Deleuze’s work as something that only appeals to yuppies. ©

“Conclave” (2024)

Первые полчаса: ну, операторская работа безупречна.

***

Ну понятно, что фильм об искушении модерностью, но так провалить сюжет в конце все-таки нужно было постараться. Авторы были в полушаге от шедевра, однако ж им зачем-то понадобилось в очередной раз выбить на пластиковых скрижалях максимы претенциозной лже-доброты (средневековая легенда о папессе из Ингельхайма была, по крайней мере, полна яростного и достоверного красноречия).

Лучший момент фильма — монолог героя Файнса об убежденности, которая и фальшива, и в конечном итоге опасна: как тут не вспомнить ницшевское «не сомнение, а несомненность — вот то, что сводит с ума». Тем обиднее, что финал свелся к теплохладному altum silentium.

The weather was so ghastly today that we were stuck inside the house (and cancelled our usual lengthy walk): the animals outside also looked quite miserable, and I was left with the impression that our cheeky blackbirb wanted to come in.

Once David Lynch said, “Black has depth: you can go into it. And you start seeing what you’re afraid of. You start seeing what you love, and it becomes like a dream.”

True that: his portrait by Stanley Chow Illustration (it arrived today, and I immediately framed it, slightly rearranging my Twin Peaksiana and hanging Audrey’s image, also from Stanley Chow, below) proves his point.

(Apologies for all the reflections: too hard to avoid)

Burns Night

Sláinte! Oidhche Bhlas Burns!

Папе 79

Папе исполнилось бы 79 сегодня, и уже второй год, как его нет.

Наткнулась тут недавно на старую запись «Принцессы Турандот» из Вахтангова 71, кажется, года и вспомнила, как отец с мамой в каждый их приезд в Москву и Питер шли в театр или оперу. Папа отлично знал весь репертуар Таганки и Современника, любил эфросовские спектакли и цитировал классику практически с любого места.

Мне почти 50, и тех наших с ним разговоров о литературе и музыке ужасно не хватает. Главное не забывать детали. Помнить всегда.

Nothings and triviality

Мы, наверное, были последними, кто убрал сегодня елку в Кембридже. Несколько дней назад во время нашей обычной вечерней прогулки заметили в окне на соседней улице похожий темный елочный силуэт: видимо, хозяева, как и мы, уже стеснялись включать гирлянду по вечерам, отодвигая неизбежное. Я мысленно передала им привет.

Робкое «так или иначе» в сегодняшнем прорвавшемся сквозь все возможные фильтры спаме напомнило гоголевское «возвеличь в торжественном гимне незаметного труженика» (сказано было о казнокрадах, но уж очень к месту), поэтому не смогла пройти мимо.

The very first gem from the Weird British Library subscription-2025 arrived a few days ago, and it looks exciting. To my embarrassment, from the entire ToC I am familiar only with Tanith Lee, so I love to discover more stories written by female horror fiction writers.

Since today’s the birthday of both Lynch and Fellini, I’d like to imagine them sitting and chatting somewhere—in the White Lodge or on the beach from 8 1/2, where Saraghina is dancing her rumba and Señorita Dido is carefully balancing her flickering golden orb with Laura Palmer’s face inside.

Boris Dralyuk whom I respect immensely (I had a chance to talk to him once or twice and was left with a thoroughly great impression) was right, describing Chekhov as a grounded and fearless anti-humanist, following the release of a new biography, “Freedom from Violence and Lies“ (2021), by Michael C. Finke.

Whatever one makes of Chekhov’s stance on artistic freedom, of his chafing at being pigeonholed, Finke does a marvellous job of threading the theme through the man’s life and work. From his early use of pseudonyms to his refusal to cry at the funeral of his older brother Nikolai – a talented painter who had failed to conquer his personal and hereditary demons – the Chekhov that emerges from these pages is a paragon of “hard-won dignity and self-assurance”, which find expression, not altogether paradoxically, in a self-restraint bordering on self-effacement. A writer-physician with a stiff upper lip, he led a life filled with good works and produced an enormously influential body of writing devoid of one-sided judgement – stories and plays, in which, Finke writes (quoting from Chekhov’s letter of 1886 to another older brother, Alexander), the “inner worlds of characters should ‘be understandable from the actions of the heroes’, and an effect-for-the-cause, metonymic principle” prevails. “Who’s interested in knowing my life and your life, my thoughts and your thoughts?”, Chekhov asked Alexander in 1889. “Give the people people, not yourself.” ©

I guess it’s time for me to write some sort of tribute to David Lynch.

The latest, and ongoing, trend on socials (mostly, on FB, to a lesser extent on Twitter) is a claim that any attempt of yours to put something out when a famous person dies is to “jump on the bandwagon of grief,” trying to collect as many self-gratifying points as possible, simply because you cannot be sincere and all you are doing is meticulously ticking boxes of validation. Not trying to disregard this particular ethos (you cannot convince a bunch of middle-aged strangers on the Internet of anything: prove me wrong), I will, however, keep in mind that everything I write in public spaces is still my own subjective reaction, and I, and only I, can judge exactly how visceral it might be.

But I digress, and here comes nothing but my own ramblings mixed up with fragmentary memories, mostly of “Twin Peaks.” 

This is the water 

And this is the well. 

Drink full and descend. 

The horse is the white of the eyes 

and dark within. ©

David Lynch (1946 — 2025)

 I can’t.

When you politely ask skeletons in a lux closet to stop making rattling sounds:

“Muller [...] tells me that ethical boundaries prevent him from sharing anything about his sessions with Gaiman, but he apparently felt comfortable sharing details of his conversation with Pavlovich.”

“Everyone was trying to make the best of what was clearly a difficult situation”*—a remarkable volte-face.

__________

* An excerpt from that exact Vulture article

Mystery horrors aren’t that easy to master, but if done properly, they can be great (“The Haunting of Hill House” is the first that comes to mind). This one below sounds amusing.

Uketsu’s YouTube videos are less absurdist, but just as creepy. Using a voice modifier to make his pitch high and childlike, he plays detective, inviting the viewer to solve mysteries with him. He wears a black bodysuit and a white papier-mâché mask, with poked holes for the eyes and mouth. He presents pictures and interviews “witnesses” over a landline. “Do you understand what’s wrong with this house?” he asks at the beginning of Hen na le (The Strange House). “Look again.” ©

Once you are young and full of joie de vivre and next moment you are nervously checking how to take care of your ferns after a mild frost.

Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm. ©

A benevolent werewolf (or maybe not)

An interesting entry discussing an apparent magic creature from Shetland folklore, a humanoid-like wolf, which is much more benevolent (!) than a traditional werewolf, whose name is Wulver. The reality is, however, that “Wulver” is pure mystification and was invented by one of the folklorists in the mid 1930s.

Then another folklorist came on the scene. Jessie Saxby (1842-1940) is the villain in this story. She had a very vivid imagination. She didn’t like the idea that Wulver’s Hool derives from álf, fairy. She wanted something more dramatic. So she invented the entirely fictitious creature the wulver. She even named her house Wulvershool. ©

Филологическое-соцсетевое (копирайтерское-традиционное)

Пролистывая русскоязычную часть ленты, summa summarum: на каждый палимпсест найдется свой Пьер Менар, каждому коллажу своя ризома, ударим Лиотаром по бездорожью, все засмеялись, а Ваня заплакал.

***

Ну и заключительное от меня по сабжу «пьер менар наносит ответный удар»: все-таки наблюдать за отголосками лит. дискуссий в несуетном жанре прощупывания иерархий «апроприировал — возмести духовностью» лучше со стороны.

Although most Christmas decorations have disappeared after Epiphany around the city, you can still see some, and this Gingerbread stately home in a window display is one of them:

Православное Рождество

С Рождеством Христовым! Снова наступило, а значит, есть надежда.

Православный Рождественскиий Сочельник

Перша зірка на небі сповіщає, що Христос народжується, Святвечір настає! Готуйте кутю смачну!

Пречистая Діва Сина породила. Ой, рано!

Ой, рано-раненько радуйся, земленько.

Христос народився.

А за блиском зорі, ідуть в покорі

Три славні царі!

Три царі, славні царі,

І приносять дари

Христу в офіру.

An incredible WORKING illustration of MR James’s Mezzotint by M.S. Corley*: quite subtle but very eerie:

_____________

* The image is taken from his blog, which, sadly, hasn’t been updated for quite a while

Неожиданное-любимое

Только вчера заметила, что окошко с погодой на десктопе у меня настроено на Кромер, и я хз, когда оно переключилось с кембриджского прогноза. Not mad at all: пусть будет.

While visiting Ely Cathedral yesterday, we came across a modern exhibition with a Biblical Cain-Abel quote in its title, ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’, and a quasi-poignant subtitle, which would suit any first grade project of a liberal arts student, “what it is to be human.”

As usual in cases like that, the author* put lots of bronze? plastic? (I have no idea) figurines of unpleasant looking modern people (no, not all of them were supposed to be disheveled, precarious or homeless: some just looked plain bored) on empty pedestals and plinths inside the cathedral**, which, I guess, must call attention to a variety of ongoing issues (you can name a few).

Well, it definitely didn’t work for me: I was instantly pissed off. I am not an Anglican, but seeing a sister church being used in this cheap way, as an attempt to focus on social problems through the lamest promotion of bad art was gross. Yes, I know that Christianity is almost dead in Britain—I am not blind and can see that the very idea to “preserve former religious spaces giving them a new life” was taken to a whole new level, and it’s not about helping folks in need anymore. Having a coffee shop inside? It’s fine: “They do not need to go away. You give them something to eat.” (Matthew 14:17). A playground for little kids, when mothers could have a bit of rest? Absolutely fine. The wholesome list can be continued, but it’s not the point anymore: what started once as a charitable initiative, quickly became a PR trap, and every alumni with a degree in bad art can enter the (once) sacred space in order to become famous.

The Christmas Tree at Ely Cathedral-2024 (En)

And here we are: the Christmas Tree at Ely Cathedral-2024. This season it’s decorated with flickering gold ornaments (last year the palette was golden/red), and it looks as spectacular as ever.

Вечер первого дня (En)

A quiet day of the newborn year
when it’s blustery and rainy outside
and I fed my garden menagerie—
squirrels, jays, robins and blackbirds
we can’t see the Sun yet we know:
it’s somewhere in places we love and cherish
and my only desire is to see
the place of my dreams
covered in snow

(photos taken by Alison Toon and Joshua Dyball ©)

Happy New Year!

 Hello, 2025!