R.L. Swihart's Blog, page 47

From Durrenmatt's The Pledge

“To be honest,” Dr. H. began later, as we were approaching the Kerenz Pass—the road was icy again, and beneath us lay Lake Walen, glittering, cold, forbidding; also, the leaden weariness from the Medomin had come back, the memory of the smoky taste of the whiskey, the feeling of gliding along in an endless, meaningless dream—“to be honest, I have never thought highly of crime novels, and I rather regret that you, too, write them. It’s a waste of time. Though what you said in your lecture yesterday was worth hearing; since the politicians have shown themselves to be so criminally inept—and it takes one to know one, I’m a member of Parliament, as I’m sure you’re aware . . .” (I had no idea, I was listening to his voice as if from a great distance, barricaded behind my tiredness, but attentive, like an animal in its lair) “. . . People hope the police at least will know how to put the world in order, which strikes me as the most miserable thing you could possibly hope for. But unfortunately, these mystery stories perpetrate a whole different sort of deception. I don’t even mean the fact that your criminals are always brought to justice. It’s a nice fairy tale and is probably morally necessary. It’s one of those lies that preserve the State, like that pious homily ‘crime doesn’t pay’—when all that’s required to test this particular piece of wisdom is to have a good look at human society; no, I’d let all that pass, on principles of commerce if nothing else, because every reader and every taxpayer has a right to his heroes and his happy ending, and it’s our job to deliver that—I mean ours as policemen, just as much as it’s your job as writers. No, what really bothers me about your novels is the story line, the plot. There the lying just takes over, it’s shameless. You set up your stories logically, like a chess game: here’s the criminal, there’s the victim, here’s an accomplice, there’s a beneficiary; and all the detective needs to know is the rules, he replays the moves of the game, and checkmate, the criminal is caught and justice has triumphed. This fantasy drives me crazy. You can’t come to grips with reality by logic alone.

From Night in Lisbon

“We drove on. It was a strange day. Reality seemed to have sunk into an abyss. We drove along a high narrow ridge beneath low-lying clouds, as in the cabin of a funicular. The closest likeness I could think of was one of those old Chinese ink drawings, showing travelers moving along monotonously amid mountain peaks, clouds, and waterfalls. The boy huddled in the back seat and barely moved. All he had learned in the course of his short life was to distrust everybody and everything. He remembered nothing else. When the guardians of National Socialist culture bashed in his grandfather’s skull, he had been three years old; he had been seven when his father was hanged, and nine when his mother was gassed—a true child of the twentieth century.

Yellow-billed Magpies

Yellow-billed Magpies @ Los Olivos CA. Got only a few fleeting glimpses on Sunday (driving north) when the cherry stand was at the corner of Zaca Station. On the way home (yesterday) the stand was gone and a mischief of magpies (3 to 5) was there: playing in and around an oak tree, a shorn yellow field, the vineyards. Coulda been sunnier but I'll take what I got and visit Zaca Station every chance I can. Happy Hump Day and thanks for the tip @just.birdies.:)

#rlswihart #losolivos #centralcoast #zacastation #magpiesofinstagram #yellowbilledmagpie #wheresthesun #nature #beauty #yellowthings #poetry #readmorepoetry2023 #ukraine 🇺🇦

From Night in Lisbon

Then, in the perfect stillness, hundreds of leaves detached themselves from their branches and came floating down, as though in answer to a mysterious command. They glided serenely through the clear air, and some of them fell on me. In that moment I saw the freedom, the boundless consolation of death. I made no decision, but I knew that I had the power to end my life if Helen should die, that I wouldn’t have to stay behind alone.

Blue Grosbeak @ Fairview Park

Blue Grosbeak (Male & Female) @ Fairview Park. Costa Mesa CA. TGIF & Enjoy your weekend.

#rlswihart #costamesa #fairviewpark #grosbeaksofinstagram #bluegrosbeak #bluebirds #nature #tgif #weekend #beauty #poetry #readmorepoetry2023 #ukraine🇺🇦🎈 🐦

From Remarque's Night in Lisbon

“Near the hotel I heard subdued voices and steps. Two SS men came out of a house door, pushing a man ahead of them into the street. I saw his face in the light of a street lamp. It was narrow and waxen, and a black trickle of blood ran down over his chin from one corner of his mouth. The crown of his head was bald, but there was a growth of dark hair on the sides. His eyes were wide open and full of horror such as I had not seen in years. Not a sound escaped him. The SS men pushed and pulled him impatiently. They were quiet about it. There was something muffled and eerie about the whole scene. The SS men cast furious, challenging glances at me as they passed, and the prisoner stared at me out of paralyzed eyes, making a gesture that seemed to be a plea for help; his lips moved, but not a sound came out. It was a scene as old as humankind: the minions of power, the victim, the eternal third, the onlooker, who doesn’t raise a finger in defense of the victim, who makes no attempt to set him free, because he fears for his own safety, which for that very reason is always in danger. “I knew I could do nothing for the arrested man. The armed SS men would have overpowered me without difficulty. I remembered that someone had told me about a similar scene. He had seen an SS man arresting and beating a Jew and had come to the Jew’s help; he had knocked the SS man unconscious and told the victim to run. But the arrested Jew had cursed his liberator; now, he said, he was really lost, because this, too, would be counted against him; sobbing, he had gone for water to revive the SS man, so that the SS man could lead him to his death. This story came back to me now, but, even so, I was thoroughly ashamed of my fear and helplessness. I felt that it was sinful and frivolous to be thinking of my own welfare while others were being murdered. I went to the hotel, gathered up my things, and took a cab to the station, although it was much too early. It was more dangerous to sit in the waiting room than to hide in my hotel room, but that was what I wanted. Pure childishness, but the risk restored my self-respect a little.

From Anna Seghers' The Seventh Cross

This is the land of which it is said that the last war’s projectiles plow from the ground the projectiles of the war before the last.

Yellow-breasted Chat

Yellow-breasted Chat in Seal Beach CA. Lying low in a sea of wild mustard mostly, but comes up now and then to "chat" and check things out from his fave lookout. Happy Sunday.🌞

#rlswihart #sealbeach #socal #chatsofinstagram #yellowbreastedchat #yellowflowers #lyinglow #nature #beauty #poetry #readmorepoetry2023 #ukraine🇺🇦🎈

Edmund Wilson's Hecate County

He picked up Anna’s old violin, which she had got out and had been fooling with a little because she wasn’t able to do any housework. She had spoken of this violin, which had been brought over by her father from Europe and which was the only relic of him she had. She had told me that it was supposed to be a fine one, and had talked once or twice about selling it; and now I was surprised to discover that it did bear Stradivari’s label and was at least one of the good imitations. Leo played on it a little old polka and started the overture to Poet and Peasant. Then he stopped and said, “I can’t remember it,”—and he and his family took their leave.

Edmund Wilson's "Wilbur Flick"

After that, I saw the Flicks less often. This sudden and rapid moving seemed to become a mania with Wilbur. He had added narcotics to his liquor, and he was very soon suffering from a delusion that it was utterly impossible for him to get to sleep—he liked to dramatize his insomnia with a kind of diluted Weltschmerz that had a flavor of both Hemingway and Spengler—without a complicated ritual of drug-taking.