Willy: Saul Burton the songwriter. Eighty-nine years old. He went just like that from nothing. You know what kind of songs he wrote? Shit. (sings) “Lady, lady, be my baby.” Lady rhymes with baby. Oy. No wonder he’s dead.
To my mind, each of these describes the same world: de Chirico, Brancusi, Gaudi, the 1973 Czech film Fantastic Planet, Borges' “Tlon, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius,” Satie ’ s Trois Gymnopédies, Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights, Gulliver's Travels , Cirque du Soleil , Brian Quinette’s Invisible Library, both the Codex Seraphianus and the Voynich Manuscript, the library at Alexandria, the game of chess and the numbered (but not the titled) chapters of Calvino's If, on a Winter's Night, a Traveler . And Barcelona.
Comments
Post a Comment