A Centenary For The Fragment
Knowing where we are itís no surprise there are no stars A diffuse light has brought us here to this blue sward where animals blanche and casual nude figures recline in their tonnage their wishes set toward fulfillment in a land of sighs and pink rosettes ** He remembers the dead who were his friends their little fingers that grasped at laws who ate and drank and stunk as him their constant moaning like a night of strange where lies conjoin to make amens and dusk- blue accents morph the furniture into tangled blue apes that blur the mirror ** One way to see it is that everything means there is no other than the one we make with ruined grins and pale imperatives the desires they bring to the desire we are. ** There are only three sources of beauty left: nature, art and the human body. We have lost antiquity in a century only to gain a new impermanence. There is little choice but to experiment or wind our way back to a semblance of classicism as Goethe did and Eliot, but a classicism formed from some kind of future-sense. ** In the blue collage of the man pinned in wreckage Circe weeps magisterial tears Behind her, pink pigs traverse a vanishing trail Their sighs floating upwards like white lufik towards the stars
— David Hickman