Remedios Varo, ‘Bordando el Manto Terrestre.’

embroidering-the-earth-s-mantle-1961 (1)

In Mexico City they somehow wandered into an exhibition of paintings by the beautiful Spanish exile Remedios Varo: in the central paintings of a triptych, titled ‘Bordando el Manto Terrestre’, were a number of frail girls with heart-shaped faces, huge eyes, spun-gold hair, prisoners in the top room of a circular tower, embroidering a kind of tapestry which spilled out the slit windows and into a void, seeking hopelessly to fill the void: for all the other buildings and creatures, all the waves, ships and forests of the earth were contained in this tapestry, and the tapestry was the world.

The Crying of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon.

Harper Lee’s recipe for cracklin’ cornbread.

An interesting piece of culinary ephemera from the 1961 Artists’ and Writers’ Cookbook. Originally posted on the Paris Review’s Daily blog by Sadie Stein in March 2014:

First, catch your pig. Then ship it to the abattoir nearest you. Bake what they send back. Remove the solid fat and throw the rest away. Fry fat, drain off liquid grease, and combine the residue (called “cracklings”) with:
1 ½ cups water-ground white meal
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 egg
1 cup milk
Bake in very hot oven until brown (about 15 minutes).
Result: one pan crackling bread serving 6. Total cost: about $250, depending upon size of pig. Some historians say this recipe alone fell the Confederacy.

Coming in the door, first thing Bodine notices is this string quartet that’s playing tonight.

Coming in the door, first thing Bodine notices is this string quartet that’s playing tonight. The second violin happens to be Gustav Schlabone, Säure, Bummer’s frequent unwelcome doping partner, “Captain Horror,” as he is affectionately but not inaccurately known around Der Platz—and playing viola is Gustav’s accomplice in suicidally depressing everybody inside 100 meters’ radius wherever they drop in (who’s that tapping and giggling at your door, Fred and Phyllis?), André Omnopon, of the feathery Rilke mustaches and Porky Pig tattoo on stomach (which is becoming the “hep” thing lately: even back in the Zone of the Interior the American subdebs all think it’s swoony). Gustav and André are the Inner Voices tonight. Which is especially odd because on the program is the suppressed quartet from the Haydn Op. 76, the so-called “Kazoo” Quartet in G-Flat Minor, which gets its name from the Largo, cantabile e mesto movement, in which the Inner Voices are called to play kazoos instead of their usual instruments, creating problems of dynamics for cello and first violin that are unique in the literature. “You actually need to shift places from a spiccato to a détaché,” Bodine rapidly talking a Corporate Wife of some sort across the room toward the free-lunch table piled with lobster hors d’oeuvres and capon sandwiches—“less bow, higher up you understand, soften it—then there’s also about a thousand ppp-to-fff blasts, but only the one, the notorious One, going the other way….” Indeed, one reason for the work’s suppression is this subversive use of sudden fff quieting to ppp. It’s the touch of the wandering sound-shadow, the Brennschluss of the Sun. They don’t want you listening to too much of that stuff—at least not the way Hayden presents it (a strange lapse in the revered composer’s behaviour): cello, violin, alto and treble kazoos all rollicking along in a tune sounds like a song from the movie Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, “You should see me dance the Polka,” when suddenly in the middle of an odd bar the kazoos just stop completely, and the Outer Voices fall to plucking a non-melody that tradition sez represents two 18th-century Village Idiots vibrating their lower lips. At each other. It goes on for 20, 40 bars, this feeb’s pizzicato, middle-line Kruppsters creak in the bow-legged velvet chairs, bibuhbuhbibuhbuh this does not sound like Hayden, Mutti!

—Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon

“The Triumph of Bullshit” by T.S. Eliot

Ladies, on whom my attentions have waited
If you consider my merits are small
Etiolated, alembicated,
Orotund, tasteless, fantastical,
Monotonous, crotchety, constipated,
Impotent galamatias
Affected, possibly imitated,
For Christ’s sake stick it up your ass.

Ladies, who find my intentions ridiculous
Awkward, insipid and horribly gauche
Pompous, pretentious, ineptly meticulous
Dull as the heart of an unbaked brioche
Floundering versicles feebly versiculous
Often attenuate, frequently crass
Attempts at emotion that turn isiculous,
For Christ’s sake stick it up your ass.

Ladies who think me unduly vociferous
Amiable cabotin making a noise
That people may cry out “this stuff is too stiff for us”—
Ingenuous child with a box of new toys
Toy lions carnivorous, cannon fumiferous
Engines vaporous- all this will pass;
Quite innocent, —“he only wants to make shiver us.”
For Christ’s sake stick it up your ass.

And when thyself with silver foot shall pass
Among the theories scattered on the grass
Take up my good intentions with the rest
And then for Christ’s sake stick them up your ass.