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my mind is on Istanbul: even memory waits quietly at the edge— a light across water time does not pass here it settles without a sound on stone, skin, on thought footsteps on worn ground-not arrival, not leaving only the being

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📷 Horse-Drawn Carriages in Front of a Wooden Mansion, Istanbul, 1900s

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In literature—from Pessoa’s drifting fragments in The Book of Disquiet to Sebald’s melancholic reveries—the pacing, the silences between sentences, the way a single image or memory can be dwelt on at length, all these techniques pull you inward.

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In Merleau‑Ponty’s phenomenology, perception itself is an ever‑unfolding event. He reminds us that we never grasp the world fully in one glance; every act of seeing, hearing, or touching is partial, pregnant with what remains unseen.

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Philip Glass’ music, like Merleau-Ponty’s philosophy, Degas’s pastels, or The Book of Disquiet, explores repetition with variation, stillness that moves, presence through absence.

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Merleau-Ponty said, “The visible is pregnant with the invisible.” That line could easily describe a Degas pastel — the silence is never empty; it is full of what cannot be fully seen or said, yet is always felt.

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When Merleau-Ponty speaks of emptiness in relation to Degas, he’s often referring to how Degas allows the invisible to speak — not by showing everything, but by suggesting, withholding, leaving space. This is not a lack but a presence through absence.

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• Waiting for Godot shows what happens when characters surrender to inertia—they remain trapped in empty waiting. • In Bernhard’s novels, characters who refuse to let despair swallow them sometimes find solace in obsessive routines or creative outbursts—imperfect, but alive.

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Merleau‑Ponty reminds us we don’t just observe time—we live it. By pushing back against the urge to give up (despair) or to stay frozen (inertia), we make our moments count. We transform time from a burden into a field of possibility.

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• Krasznahorkai shows us post‑communist societies where the promise of freedom simply exposes a different set of constraints—so that the collapse of one system only reveals the hollowness of another. • Sebald dwells on how the ruins of the past are never truly past:

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It’s a fascinating how silence, stillness, and repetition can speak volumes about the human condition.

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Just like in The Woman in the Dunes and Jeanne Dielman, the repetition of physical labor in Perfect Days becomes a metaphor for existential entrapment—a form of silent self-reflection, loneliness, and inner conflict.

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The Woman in the Dunes by Kōbō Abe is very much in the same vein as Jeanne Dielman in terms of conveying a complex internal world through silence, stillness, and physicality. Both works explore the unspoken aspects of the human experience,

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Jeanne Dielman, 23 Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles (1975), directed by Chantal Akerman, is a profound example of cinema that explores silent conflict, particularly through loneliness, repression, and the quiet struggles of daily life.

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Like Pamuk and Krasznahorkai, Nádas delves deeply into personal, cultural, and historical tensions. His characters often struggle with the weight of history, particularly the complex legacy of Hungarian identity, Communist rule, and the trauma of war.

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Much like Pamuk’s characters, Krasznahorkai’s characters are shaped by historical trauma and the tension between personal desires and societal expectations. Their struggles are marked by silence, isolation, and a deep sense of being caught between worlds—

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In Istanbul: Memories and the City, Pamuk writes: “I am both the outsider and the insider, in my own city, in my own country, and in my own family. I am always in a kind of tension between the old and the new, between the traditional and the modern,

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Sebald, in his writing, uses walking as a way to uncover memories, histories, and emotions. His characters’ physical journeys through cities, nature, or landscapes become meditative, often revealing hidden layers of meaning, history, and loss.

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Ammons’ walks in his poetry are often about the quiet, subtle unfolding of thoughts and observations, where every step offers a new shift in perspective. There’s a sense of wonder and curiosity in his explorations,

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'there is no finality of vision, that I have perceived nothing completely, that tomorrow a new walk is a new walk' (Corsons Inlet by A. R. Ammons )

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“In the meantime, I am cleaning feathers, counting my wings, inventing new ways to fly, rehearsing songs, perfecting routines, biting my tongue, eating my tongue, and standing guard.” —written by Max Porter in Grief Is the Thing with Feathers. (it’s spoken by Crow) 🐦‍⬛

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‘Her stories encompass stuffy Québécois Catholics, exiles from Eastern Europe, Swiss Nobel Prize winners, Canadians on the make in Europe after the war, Parisian tax collectors, the posh English living cheaply in Italy.’ Tessa Hadley on Mavis Gallant: www.lrb.co.uk/the-paper/v4...

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Woop! We made a huge interview w. Hungarian historical writer Pál Závada. Here he talks Flaubert and Sebald, Esterházy and Nádas, & his latest novel which follows a docu film crew in the politically charged 80s, as they investigate the Kulak show trials of the 50s that resulted in an execution.

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the line between victim and perpetrator, between survival and complicity, is sometimes impossibly thin

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In a world where everything is being measured, categorized, politicized, and weaponized, true kindness is something that escapes calculation. It isn’t strategic. It doesn’t seek reward. It isn’t even always remembered.

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Shokakko is a Japanese word created by a Japanese writer Haruki Murakami. It means “little but certain happiness” … refers to the little joys of life, the tiny joys of everyday life like the smell of coffee in the morning, enjoying a ray of sunshine.

submitted 5 days ago • 0 comments