Gordon Matta-Clark, Bronx Floors (1972)





God he's fantastic. I will never get enough of this song.


And the ghosts

they own everything

                — Graham Foust








Petőfi Sándor
So maist thou live, till like ripe Fruit thou drop
Into thy Mothers lap, or be with ease
Gatherd, not harshly pluckt, for death mature:
This is old age.

Paradise Lost, Book 11 (1674 version)


                                              Men must endure
Their going hence even as their coming hither.
Ripeness is all.

King Lear, 5.2.9–11 (Arden edition)

On growing old

"New poems no longer come to me, with their prodigies of metaphor and assonance. Prose endures. I feel the circles grow smaller, and old age is a ceremony of losses, which is on the whole preferable to dying at forty-seven or fifty-two. When I lament and darken over my diminishments, I accomplish nothing. It’s better to sit at the window all day, pleased to watch birds, barns, and flowers. It is a pleasure to write about what I do."

Donald Hall on growing old, from Out the Window, New Yorker January 23, 2012 issue.