σὐ δ᾽ αὔτα σύμμαχος ἔσσο

- Anne Carson, ‘Mimnermos: the brainsex paintings’, in ‘Plainwater’. (via tobreakandblossom)

Jenn says: While I try to figure out in what order to finish the gabillion books I started a couple weeks ago, I took yesterday afternoon to read Anne Carson’s newest. Ever since I read Autobiography of Red in college, I’ve been a die-hard fan (if you haven’t experienced the sheer beauty of Antigonick yet, you reeeaaallllly need to get your hands on a copy), so I lost my reader-marbles when I heard there was a sequel coming out. The further adventures of Geryon, now known as G, are everything you would expect from a master like Carson: the language is glorious, emotions run deep, and I truly don’t know what I will read next because Red Doc> has taken over my brain.

Going to see Anne Carson tonight!

“If you like books to provoke you, dare you, even change the way you think, let me recommend this strange, wonderful pair of novels about a young red man. We all have volcanoes in our lives. Sometimes it takes someone else to show us how to survive them.”

- Anne Carson, ‘Short Talks’, Plainwater.

Purse Scan

Anne Carson, On Shelter

(This shadow sliced through my pages in the park today.) 

New York Magazine’s Kathryn Schulz on Anne Carson’s ‘Red Doc>’

From Anne Carson’s Red Doc> (Knopf 3/13).

Anne Carson, “Short Talks: On Walking Backwards” (via meggannn)

Anne Carson’s sequel of sorts to Autobiography of Red is here. Rejoice!

I want to be like Anne Carson.

Anne Carson, Nox (via foxesinbreeches)

“You brush your teeth in the second and the third person…” 

’69 was the year Mom began her housesitting summers and downing sleeping pills during the day “just to take the edge off.” She used to say, forget the coming of saints and their salivating dogs enjoy the applause you receive in the name of bravery borne out of crosswinds and cancers her eyes would water and reflect dim hallway lights – reminded  me of hotel rooms with stiff sheets, down pillows, and the wind  howling out there the way it does toward winter’s close  when we wring our hands at home where it’s always winter when we rub our worry stones inside coat pockets  where contents feel bigger in the fabricated night of navy polyester But is this a night we can trust? Its stale bedtimes and half moons  hang like seashells in the sky as Mom and I continued discussing death  over English muffins, pooled butter dripping down her fingers and smacking  the tabletop, our voices crackling like used coals late into a blue morning