Cinema of the Present
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
"Robertson proves hard to explain but easy to enjoy. . . . Dauntlessly and resourcefully intellectual, Robertson can also be playful or blunt. . . . She wields language expertly, even beautifully."—The New York Times
What if the cinema of the present were a Möbius strip of language, a montage of statements and questions sutured together and gradually accumulating color? Would the seams afford a new sensibility around the pronoun "you"? Would the precise words of philosophy, fashion, books, architecture, and history animate a new vision, gestural and oblique? Is the kinetic pronoun cinema?
These and other questions are answered in the new collection from acclaimed poet and essayist Lisa Robertson. The book is available with four different back covers, designed by artists Hadley+Maxwell.
A quorum of crows will be your witness.
And if you discover you were bought?
You note the smell of rain, bread, and exhaust mixed with tiredness.
And if you yourself are incompatible with your view of the world?
And what is the subject but a stitching?
Once again you are the one who promotes artifice.
At 2 am on Friday, you burn with a maudlin premonition.
And rankings and rankings and badges and repetitions.
Lisa Robertson's book Lisa Robertson's Magenta Soul Whip was named one of the New York Times 100 Notable Books of 2010 and was longlisted for the 2011 Warwick Prize. Her other books include Debbie: An Epic, The Men, The Weather, and Occasional Work and Seven Walks from the Office for Soft Architecture. She is the 2014 Bain Swiggett Professor at Princeton University.
your ears love. A gate made of a sofa bed and light bulbs. You felt yourself justified in speaking of cadence. There you look for what is already institutionally incomplete. You fling open regret. There at the creature-riven unfounding, at the sorrow of animals, at the invention of sentiments. You found music and pleasantness in the copula. It takes you a long time to shed the specificity of your desires; in actuality the task remains unfinished. You frequent whatever’s
build a support for the certainty of causelessness. So you came to nilling. You’ll diss the privative skit called sex. Then you would be part of the science that does not yet exist. You’ll go to a place that is crumbling. You have gathered a bundle of rotted sticks. You’ll just speak for prosody from now on. And your despair is not a philosophic datum. You’ll leave the professorate to their concept of paucity. You exercise the pleasure of refusal. You’ll not shame it. This
retail carpets you saw humans escaping themselves, deer braying to the God, Poussin demi-porn. By means of description, a whole profound mass of time became your milieu. In this way you are a purveyor of doubt. And you had a conceptual sensation. In this way you are motility. It was then that ‘the body’ unhooked your mind. Inextricably you arrive at a weak argument. Impeccably, that is. O, Rosy-booted. Inside a taxonomy it quivers and variegates. What is the emotion of wit?
narrative hardening into currency. O Sir, you said, had I only been able to tell a quarter of what I saw and felt beneath that tree. You have invented nothing. O, Rosy-booted. A university, a swimming pool, a botanical park. Of shapely pleasure you spoke. A gate of hacksaw blades and bicycle spokes. On a level with intuitive reason and the complicated history of grace. Within the intensity of waiting you see foliage and its lights, you see extraordinary and calm people clearing
benevolent peripheries. You burst to a skirty froth. Was it enough? You play and believe. That love happened at all. And so you hit upon your grandeur. That morning in the hotel bed, you experienced your thinking as moving surfaces that intersected sequentially and at varying angles. Then you lapsed in its observance. That only your lovely arrogance permitted this. You use speech to decorate duration for somebody. You stop just before it becomes a shape. That the snow