Thursday, June 15, 2017


            I went to The Met to see this painting by Valdes Leal because in THE VIA VENETO PAPERS by Ennio Flaiano (Marlboro Press)--- who was one of the script writers for LA DOLCE VITA--- is writing that he had seen rushes of the movie and the people depicted reminded him of the putrifying preachers depicted in Leal's paintings that are in a hospital in Seville...
         I had never looked at the picture as it is in the same gallery as the El Grecos...but upon inspection the depiction of the wounds and the very ordinariness of the mortal corpse of the Christ...

     Long ago Eugene Lambe who shows up in my ST PATRICK'S DAY another day in Dublin and who had a book and poem dedicated to him by Derek Mahon told me that when going to an art museum you should look at as few paintings as possible... I try to follow this suggestion...and taking advantage of the proximity of the Met as Eugene too advantage of the National Gallery in London as he lived in Long Acre...

          I have the habit of always looking at the Poussin's "Blind Orion Searching for the Rising Sun"--- a painting that is mostly passed by in favor of "The Abduction of the Sabine Women"--- 

           Today, I noticed the posture of the guy standing in the clouds... some time ago I was pleased to see that Claude Simon had also noticed this painting and it appears in one of his late novels...

             And in keeping with only a few I looked before leaving at the small display of Fairfield Porter painting, tucked away in the far modern country of The Met... Union Square once upon a time...

and this moment:    

        So, as in the serenity of the picture of these windows:  it was a successful visit... and allowed me to even remember Julian Green who also made very brief visits to the Louvre where he learned also by looking... the going to an art museum should be very easy and disciplined in what one looks at...

        Lastly, near the Leal painting was a very large complex painting...  

 suggesting the sort of novel I would hope to write but I will save it for another visit--- I am taken by the fellow who has his arm thrown out as if to say: look... but to return to another quiet moment provided by Fragonard...similar to the one provided by Porter:

           Of course none of this would be tolerated by students going to art school... as students are encouraged to avoid going to museums... and instead are supposed to be spending their time understanding the market, understanding their careers... 

Wednesday, May 10, 2017


ONE OF THOSE DAYS--- as is often said--- and this is one of those days, and by the end of it the doctor never called  so it will go on..until


  I was at Betty Cuningham and having seen the Picabia show at MOMA  I was struck by how the shade of that painter--- from the time of the 1940s when he was in the south of France ignoring World War Two:  

had insinuated itself into the eye and talent of Philip Pearlstein, something I had suspected back in February and found confirmed in an article in Brooklyn Rail by Pearlstein himself...


  And nearby in the ANDREW EDLIN GALLERY---- a sort of successor of Phyllis Kind---  how one misses her gallery and the pleasure of writing about Martin Ramirez and  Howard Finster and Michael Madore, all of whom had shows at her gallery in New York..and I was pleased to realize that the one painter she could not talk with was Howard as he was totally unlike all her other artists in that he really did believe and lived in a world so remote from her own...though she respected his art as she did all the artists she showed.  I will leave for another time my delicious argument with her about my long piece about Martin Rameriz whch appeared in ARTS MAGAZINE and was one of the first in a major art magazine about his work...

Michael Madore sent me to look at the work of Dommenico Zindato...  echoing Ramirez in a way, but unique detailed repetitive obsessiveness...


the real world is ever present

 this is a very common obvious vulgar editorial aside


ALWAYS I STOP AT SPERONE WESTWATER, THE BEST ART GALLERY IN NEW YORK or possibly the most sophisticated both in its choice of painters and in the actual physical space...  it stands near the truly awful and useless NEW MUSEUM which is the perfect example of why Gertrude Stein once said that two words that should never be joined  together are : new and museum... but Sperone Westwater always  presents and even the current show of ALI BANISADR is of interest but is a rare show that is probably pre-mature since the Iranian painter is still too young and too obvious in being  taken over by the shades of Francis Bacon and Hieronymus and even the special pleading of the catalogue copy  telling the reader of Banisadr being a young boy had to live in a bunker during the Iran-Iraq war, which might be interesting in getting him into SVA... but reveals nothing and does note excuse his not outgrowing his influences...

But I did like very much this detail and think I would have preferred a wall of such details:


And at the corner of Second Avenue and First Street....  it can be said that art sometimes really lurches into memory and photographs alone:

Time does take away but for a moment we can yank something out of the past: one of those Picabia paintings from the 1940s-- a way to distract from the irritation of that present moment and this present moment:


from JOURNAL OF SMALL THINGS by Helen Mackay
Another Winter, Thursday, October 7th
IT is quite simple.
If it can be that the priest comes, it is very well. All that the priest does is beautiful.
The feet and hands, the eyes, the lips have
sinned, and the touch of forgiveness upon them
is exquisite. It is exquisite, that last entering
in of the Divine Body to the body that is dying.
But if for any reason no priest comes, if no one
cares or troubles to ask for him, or if there is no
time, God is most surely there and understands.
And one is comforted to find that there
is no need to fear for them, as they die. They die so quietly. I am glad to know how
quiet a thing it is to die. There was only one who was not quiet.
They bound ice about his head, and then he
did not shriek and fling himself about any more,
but lay quite quietly until he died.

Wednesday, May 3, 2017


I have been thinking of the time when I knew these three writers.

Now, with some distance they continue to matter...

But in the present moment I made a list  of writers also from back then
Peter Rand
David Black
Craig Nova
Richard M. Elman
Frank MacShane
Hannah Green
David Huddle
Irini Spanidou
Karen Hubert
Steve Schrader
John Oliver Killens
Jakov Lind
William O'Rourke
Garth St. Omar
Chad Walsh
Meredith Sue Willis
Marcia Cebulska
Tom Milligan
Paul Spike
Thomas McGonigle
Gregory Orr
Bink Noll
Richard Perry
Edward Dahlberg
George Garrett
Al Levine
George Cain
David Ignatow
Sylvia Wilkinson
William Harrison
Tom Whalen

Do any of these writers or more importantly their books exist in some real way beyond the number of friends represented by the ten fingers of one's hands? 

How one tries to imagine there is still possibility but how faded that really seems...

Thursday, April 13, 2017


One way or another, the entire past, whether recognizable or unrecognizable, stands between   me and the present world.  
                   ---PAUL VALERY CAHIERS/NOTEBOOKS 3/ p.369


I saw only one work of art: a painting by LAMAR PETERSON  at Fredericks Freiser          of course it needs no words.

NOTHING ELSE REMAINS EXCEPT THESE words gathered from the handouts pretending or seriously explaining the stuff in the 12 galleries I walked through

--replicated, altered and spread

--luminous green surveillance images

--nothing on the scanner bed

--an ongoing series of sculptural objects

--image dispositions that are wrought

--an iconic Los Angeles-based artist

--activates the negative space and narrates the scene

--explores the boundary

--reverence and inscrutability

--with forebears as disparate

--Los Angeles based artist

--implied challege to the doctrine of painting

--houses, computers, spaceship interiors

--assimilating the ironies and contradictions

--address how digital technology is changing

--playful take on action painting

--computer-animated stars of the 1995 film

--faces appearing like ghostly

--Drawing on the range

--a sputter and an utterance

--frenetic visual culture--

--during the post-Reagan malaise of the early 1990s

--dancing expressionist rifts on classicist techniques

--Great White Male pantheon

--subconscious manipulations

--seemingly contradictory conceit

--careful attention to ancestry

--volcanic stone is a recurring

--long beloved by artists and architects

--explore the complexities of political anxiety

--dialogue around  the contentious state of global

--also engages and subverts the quotidian

--World-renowned  sculptor

--eye of

--on an ongoing basis

--explores and illuminates

--conformity and isolation 

--conflicts and complications

--twin roles of the observer

--knowing savaging

--for further information

Monday, March 27, 2017


                I walked out yesterday afternoon as it is always yesterday afternoon after a certain point and walked south from my slum apartment on East First Street.  This walking out is not possible in the suburbs---any suburb for that matter though of course I am thinking of the one where I now spend time.  In the suburbs it is always rare to meet other people walking, there are only other houses to look at and rarely does one see a person entering or leaving these dwellings.  I could not avoid thinking: feed lots, holding pens as one sees in the Arizona desert for cattle whose only destination is the knife.

             To walk out from my place one passes the variety of people, the traffic, the shops and again on this walk the art galleries south of Houston Street.  This walking midst people dissolves the isolation one is always heir to... one's moods are shifted about as one can't avoid all of the possible versions of human life... and again I met no one I knew yet I was...

             I saw in GALLERIE RICHARD  paintings by STEFAN HOENERICH which at first seem to be examples of photo-realism but then upon closer inspection they are of an invented realism and I had the impression of walking through streets near the Duomo in Milan--the narrowness of the streets and the profound gloom and feeling of being crushed by the stone faced buildings... and the absence of human figures in his paintings was as I felt, even though I was walking with Anna years ago in Milano--- to be sent right back into the isolated monad each person truly is...

             Though as in Milano when we came out on to the  square in front of Duomo and met our friend Marina, human sociability returned as it did for me crossing to the north west corner of Grand and Chrystie Streets and the Chinese market spilling out onto the sidewalks...

         And while I looked into other galleries: Elizabeth Houston, Arsenel, Betty Cuningham,, Artifact, Miguel Abreu... there remains ALDEN PROJECTS which was showing Eleanor Antin's 100 BOOTS: The Lost Picture Show.  

           Alden Projects had on display recently JENNY HOLZER'S Street Posters which reminded me of the time when SOHO was a place where art seemed to reside and when I lived at Prince and Thompson and worked at New Morning Bookstore on Spring Street ..but what it recalled more was the nature of so much of the art then:  its ephemeral nature, its discardability except for those who like myself save "stuff"...  and this show of Eleanor Antin's based in part on the mail art of that time also reminded this viewer of change, the constant change and the inevitable passing of buildings, "scenes", moments and one's own gradual disappearance--- but is that not one of the goals of great art to make the viewer understand this simple constant truth: you are going to die and this artist is also going to die YET with these objects, as frail  as they sometimes are have a real possibility of surviving  for a time.

           I long ago discovered the pleasure of reading and looking at books that documented all the art which was destroyed in the two World Wars and then even with the very greatest painters.... one is always heartened in some mysterious way when certain paintings remain only as titles-- of course these artists have achieved that recognition that allows for such catologues--- and then one thinks of all the artists, writers for whom not even their names are to be remembered...

Note: Go to  for 

Eleanor Antin
100 BOOTS: The Lost Picture Show 

February 24  April 9, 2017
Opening Friday, February 24: 6 - 8pm

Eleanor Antin. 100 Boots at the Checkpoint. 1972   Photo © Eleanor Antin

100 BOOTS: The Lost Picture Show opens on February 24th, 2017 (6 - 8 pm) and runs through April 9th at Alden Projects™. This exhibition presents recently discovered vintage photographs by Eleanor Antin from her personal collection, expanding our understanding of the peripatetic adventures of her most celebrated series, 100 BOOTS (1971-73).

100 BOOTS is a travelogue, along the lines of Huckleberry Finn or Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, featuring the cross-country adventures of 100 stage-photographed rubber boots—Army-Navy surplus boots. They are a unitary protagonist in an allegorical narrative that a then-contemporary audience easily connected with the Nixon era and Vietnam War. The work earned its initial underground reputation as a series of 51 components that were sent through the mail over a two-and-a-half year span, to between 600-1000 recipients, bypassing the conventions of reception and distribution. All of the postcards are accompanied by plot-driving titles, dates, and shooting locations, all printed verso. Bringing the war home in such a direct manner, 100 BOOTS was celebrated for its canny circumvention of the conventions of unique artworks well before the Museum of Modern Art invited Antin to exhibit there in 1973.

What is not widely recalled are the specifics of Antin’s multi-component MoMA installation of 100 BOOTS, which included three distinct sections. The largest in the North West Gallery was Crash Pad for 100 BOOTS (1973), an installation comprising a room-within-a-room, described in the museum’s exhibition materials as “a tenement apartment for the boots”…“complete with mattresses, sleeping bags, radio, and a front door equipped with a peep-hole and a chain lock.”[1] (Crash Pad for 100 Boots is presently in LACMA’s collection). Hanging in the Far West Gallery were the better-remembered 50 postcards (the final, 51st card captioned “100 Boots Go on Vacation,” was sent from California after the show closed). Also notably present were more than two dozen photographs of the “BOOTS adventures in New York” all of which are not otherwise pictured as postcards. The dimensions of the “photograph panels” are listed on the typewritten Checklist as “each approximately 20 x 16 in” (but also corrected by hand to read “each approximately 8 1/8 x 12 in”).

And so this exhibition sets out to clarify that the work we thought we knew so well—what the artist call’s “my fur tea cup”—extends beyond the four corners of the postcards. 100 BOOTS: The Lost Picture Show, curated by Alden Projects™ in collaboration with Eleanor Antin, brings to light “lost” and mostly unknown pictures of the boots in California and New York, most approximately the same range of scale as listed above. On view at Alden Projects™ are photo panels and vintage printed, gelatin silver prints, “showing the BOOTS adventures in New York”. (See below, 100 BOOTS Under the Brooklyn Bridge[1973].) Additionally, a number of arresting scenes of the  boots in California, also previously unknown, are also present. Notable among them is the cabinet-sized picture, 100 BOOTS at the Checkpoint, San Onofre (1972), depicting 100 BOOTS stage-photographed at an American immigration checkpoint near the Mexican border (and requiring considerable bureaucratic effort on the part of the artist to realize). In this picture, as elsewhere, Antin’s works are uncanny allegories of discomforting times, strangely familiar to our own. Standing together, we are reminded again that when sorrows come, they come not in single spies, but in battalions.

© Todd Alden 2017

Eleanor Antin. 100 BOOTS Under the Brooklyn Bridge. 1973. Photo © Eleanor Antin

Alden Projects™ is grateful to the artist for the opportunity to work collaboratively on this special exhibition as well as to Ronald Feldman, the artist’s legendary, long-time dealer.


Artist’s Statement for 100 BOOTS: The Lost Picture Show at Alden Projects™:

100 BOOTS is my fur cup. Think of the surrealist artist, Meret Oppenheim, and that strange, disorienting fur cup comes to mind. Many people react to 100 BOOTS like that. As Yvonne Rainer once said many years ago, oh, Eleanor Antin, she does boots. Happily, after half a century in the art world, most people are aware of my other works, many people even prefer some of my other works. Sometimes I do too. But I luv 100 BOOTS. He changed my life though it took me 2 1/2 years to realize fully who he was. He was becoming my female version of Kerouac's "On the Road". Two travel narratives, one bad boy literary, the other a leisurely visual odyssey from a respectable American town into a more dramatic, wilder, more dangerous place.

Somehow the images that didn't make it into the final piece were too dramatic, too overtly political, too suggestive of other meanings. So they remained photo prints, not postcards, and stored away in my studio where I forgot them for 50 years. Among them were images from their NY adventure when they moved into MOMA and which were shown at the museum in 1973 and never shown again. I vaguely remember some other MoMA prints but I never found them. Besides, after MoMA, I went on a hunger strike for my new piece "CARVING: A Traditional Sculpture". I was moving on. But when Todd Alden visited my studio in San Diego and told me how much he loved 100 BOOTS, my assistant Pam rummaged around into my deepest drawers and discovered those old photo prints sleeping way in the back. We were surprised. 50 years old and they look so contemporary and yet also suggestive of another time. Many of them have an angst that frankly looks uncomfortably like today.

—Eleanor Antin, February 24, 2017

[1] See 100 BOOTS Head East, The Museum of Modern Art Press Release No. 41, May 30, 1973 and Checklist for Projects: 100 BOOTS by Eleanor Antin (May 30 – July 8, 1973), The Museum of Modern Art Exhibition 1035 Master Checklist.

Sunday, February 19, 2017

KICKING THE OLD MAN, and how it relates to ST. PATRICK'S DAY another day in Dublin

               In ST. PATRICK'S DAY another day in Dublin, the narrator sees put on a very short play he wrote, A BEAUTIFUL GOOD WHOLESOME GIRL, a curtain raiser to the first student production in Ireland of Samuel Beckett's ENDGAME.  

                 The play was produced by DramSoc  the student theatre at University College, Dublin.  Beckett himself gave permission for the production and one might think he had taken a tiny ironic pleasure in this as he went to Trinity College, Dublin as his Protestant class background dictated while he well knew James Joyce had gone to this other college, founded by Newman and where Gerard Manley Hopkins taught classics and my little play was performed in the complex where the famous argument between the priest and Stephen takes place in A PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A YOUNG MAN

            I did write another play which had come out of this little poem and the thought of my dead father:  KICKING THE OLD MAN.  

          I showed the play to two people and one theatre.  I never heard from the theatre and Roger Dixon, a classmate from Beloit who did direct  dismissed it as psychodrama.  

The play's second reader was John Benson who was a bartender at The 55, the bar on Christopher Street in NYC.  He had had a small role in THE BLOB and directed summer stock.  He thought the play funny and sad and well worth putting on...  but of course where and and and... 

          I used  a few pages from the play at the beginning and end of JUST LIKE THAT... another unpublished book  that I think of as about THE end of the so-called Sixties of the last century.  The Notre Dame Review some years ago published a section from this book centered upon the narrator's life encounter with Anthony Burgess


down the street
down the street
as hard as you can
           kicking the old man
           kicking the old man 
down the street
down the street
           he knows and looks

kicking my old man
          as hard as you can

down the street 
down the street
         laughing at you 
         laughing at you
kicking my old man 
kicking my old man
           as hard as you can 
           as hard as you can
                     kicking me 
kicking me
with a smile 

Tuesday, February 14, 2017


       On the way back from the AWP (Associate Writing Program’s annual conference) in Washington, I bought THE RILKE ALPHABET by Ulrich Baer at Dedalus Book Warehouse because under the letter K:  For Kafka and King Lear.  In the book Baer writes about the storm Rilke experienced at Duino on the Adriatic coast that in some way precipitated the great elegies… and this goes on to the storm Lear experiences in the play long after he has made the famous demand upon Cordelia…
           This lead me: while I had not been to Duino, I was on the Adriatic coast in August 1967 aware  the train had gone by Duino and having left that train at Trieste (the city of Joyce and Svevo, I knew even then) I was staying at the youth hostel right on the coast to the east of the city…         I met  Michael J. Peters who was on his way to Lebanon to see The Cedars of… we met two South African girls and went drinking and missed the curfew and found ourselves locked out and as the rain came down we found shelter in a cabana back from the beach and all night the rain on the metal roof… the holding of a damp shivering body and being held in turn…
          In the morning Michael  and I found a windowless room in a shabby hotel in the city… [I know his name as it is inscribed in an old address book, neatly block-lettered in his hand] we went up to the cemetery that overlooks the city… the bright garish decorations… the large mostly deserted official buildings of a city that had once been important... the parody of the canals of Venice… we took the ferry to Pula—as I knew even then that it was actually the first place Joyce lived in Italy… we stayed at a mostly deserted grand hotel… complete with gambling salons presided over by fellows who seemed to have stepped out of Last Year at Marienbad… in the early evening we sauntered, to be exact, around the central square with all the other young people looking at each other… we took the train for Zagreb and then went our separate ways as Michael was going to Athens--- I have not seen him since but have a few letters from back then when he had returned and was living in Seattle but I do not know what became of him--- and I was going to Sofia---to meet as I didn’t know at that moment Lilia, on Hristo Botev Boulevard within an hour of leaving the train--- and my life would change and be forever walking in the streets of Sofia.  
         The year before in Dublin in a UCD lecture hall I had heard Denis Donoghue lecture on King Lear and use as the center of his discussion of silence in Shakespeare the line of Cordelia’s in response to the demand of her father: I cannot heave/ My heart into my mouth

To this day and until I die I will never… so these books these sentences…  my new book’s failure, the absence of readers, my publisher’s failure---none of that equals the failure I feel in thinking about all of this and writing this as I wonder as surely any person would do::: to what end does a man buying a book, a remaindered book at that, have himself back in a storm near Trieste on the way  East to…

Wednesday, February 8, 2017


         On the anticipated publication by New Directions of two new books by FLEUR JAEGGY : THESE POSSIBLE LIVES and  I AM THE BROTHER OF X.X. in July 2017.
           Here is a review that was never published of SWEET DAYS OF DISCIPLINE by Fleur Jaeggy.  New Directions.  I forget why either the Washington Post or Chicago Tribune refused to publish my review back in 1993.
       Sweet Days of Discipline is a masterpiece.  Probably there is no overcoming a reader’s skepticism at reading such a sentence.  Frankly, I was also skeptical about my own initial reading of the book and so to check it I took the advice in the blurb by Joseph Brodsky, “Reading time is approximately four hours.  Remembering time as for the author, the rest of one’s life.”
INTERJECTION:   I wrote this review in 1993... so 24 years later… not a word has to be changed.

        Rereading Jaeggy’s novel I found myself increasingly sadder because the novel is short and the inevitable last page gets closer and closer: I wanted to continue to live in the world of the author’s sensibility and dreading the difficulty of how to convince another to read it…
         Like all truly great works of literature the story can be summed up quite simply.  The un-named narrator is remembering a year, among many years in the 1950’s spent at a boarding school in Switzerland.  But this year was different because it was the year that a new girl, Frederique, was also a student at the same school. The novel traces out the course of that year and the growing friendship between the two girls.
        Every cliché that such a situation might suggest is avoided:  there is no sadistic headmistress, no randy kitchen help, no lesbian sexual encounters.  Instead Jaeggy creates an entire world populated by the children of the high bourgeois of Europe who are destined to be equally comfortable in Zurich, as in Paris, Milan or Munich.
The opening of the novel suggests in the sureness of the language what is to come:
       “At fourteen I was a boarder in a school in the Appenzeel.  This was the area where Robert Walser used to take his many walks when he was in the mental hospital in Herisau, not far from our college.  He died in the snow.  Photographs show his footprints and the position of the body in the snow.  We didn’t know the writer.  And nor did our literature teacher. Sometime I think it might be nice to die like that, after a walk to let yourself drop into a natural grave in the snow of the Appenzeel after almost thirty years of mental hospital in Herisau.  It really was a shame we didn’t know of Walser’s existence, we would have picked a flower for him.  Even Kant, shortly before his death was moved when a women he didn’t know offered him a rose.”
         Upon re-reading this opening paragraph I am again captivated by the tone of elegiac sadness and the author’s ability to both distance and involve the reader.  I am flattered in my knowing who Robert Walser is and having seen those famous photographs of his death steps and I appreciate the apt detail from the life of Kant which avoids the commonplace of the citizen of Koenigsberg setting their clocks to the punctuality of his daily walk through the town.
      Such a paragraph sets the tone and allow the reader to enter Jaeggy’s world by remembering too that he or she has probably had a similar experience of growing up.  Going to grammar school in Patchogue on Long Island I did not know and my teachers did not know that Henry David Thoreau had passed through Patchogue on his way to look for the bones of Margaret Fuller who had drowned off of Fire Island, opposite Patchogue.
         Never have I read such an accurate description of the process by which one attempts to become the friend of another--- knowing that friendship is the near physical absorption of the other.
        “In our lives at school, each of us, if we had a little vanity, would establish a facade,  a kind of double life, affect a way of speaking, walking, looking.  When I saw her writing I couldn’t believe it.  We also most all had the same kind of handwriting, uncertain, childish with round wide ‘o’s. Hers was completely affected. (Twenty years later I saw something similar in a dedication Pierre Jean Jouve had written on a copy of “Kyrie.”)
(LATER: again I was flattered as of course I knew the French writer, didn’t everyone at that moment who really read even only in English)  

Of course I pretended not to be surprised, I barely glanced at it.  But secretly I practiced  And I still write like Frederique today, and people tell me I have beautiful handwriting.”
          And I too remembering a boy who came to my school in four grade in Patchogue who wrote with the left hand and of how I tried to write with my left hand so as to become this friend.  And to think how far away a boarding school in Switzerland is from Patchogue!
       But the novel does not isolate the narrator: she takes walks dislikes her roommate rejects another girl who wants to be her friend.  The narrator suggests a complete world and that is what we demand of an author: invent a world into which we can fall, slide, insinuate our own experience.
       Of course Frederique is not destined for great happiness but for something more interesting: she has taken up residency in the memorial heart of both the narrator and the reader.
         An anthology of epigrammatic items of truth could be culled from this book and to set it in its proper context the reader would have tocall to mind such books as Rilke’s The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge or Cocteau’s Les Enfants Terribles or Glenway Wescott’s The Grandmothers or Fred Uhlman’s Reunion.

      Years after the year at the school the narrator runs into Frederique at the cinemateque in Paris.  They go back to her attic room, “Frederique was about twenty now.  She dressed as she always had.  A dark zinc grey over body, narrow hips, long neck.  The jugular was pulsing. She had pushed back her hood. The pale oval of her face, legs crossed.  The perfection of school days had taken up residence in this room of hers… She lives, I thought, as if she were in a grave.”
PS  I did not describe  Jaeggy's other books, LAST VANITIES, SS PROLETERKA, THESE POSSIBLE LIVES, I AM THE BROTHER  OF XX... I did not write about Jaeggy's husband Roberto Calasso... I suspect that SS PROLETERKA belongs in the Pantheon of the greatest of modern books... I guess you can say I hold Jaeggy's book in the same imaginary hand that I also hold the books of Hannah Green, ERNST JUNGER, GLENWAY WESCOTT, JULIAN GREEN, JUAN CARLOS ONETTI, JOSE LEZAMA LIMA, PETER NADAS...