Wednesday, February 27, 2013


I don't remember a time in my life when I didn't know of Van Cliburn. From small-town east Texas, he became a legend--and one of my heroes--of both classical music as well as cultural diplomacy. When the Soviets sent Sputnik into space, the US sent Cliburn to Moscow, where he dazzled apparatchik and layperson alike. His win at the 1958 Tchaikovsky International Competition had to be personally sanctioned by Khrushchev himself, who asked the hesitant judges, "Is he the best?" The answer was a resounding, "Да!" His legacy and legend did more for American-Soviet peace than all the ideologues, politicians, and Cold Warriors together.

Tuesday, February 26, 2013


Assuming that there is someone who actually reads this blog--as opposed to stumbling across it while searching "big black dick" or "big gaping pussy" (the two main searches, by the way, that point to my little corner of the web)--I've had the wrong email address in my profile for some time. If you've sent me an email in the last thirty years and I didn't respond, it's because I never received it. Please resend.

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

In Memory of M.B.

Burn all the books. The word is eternal. L'écriture—la maison de l'être. In abandonment, the writer writes to abandon what has been written in order that writing can be written in abandonment. To write is to leave a trace of writing, unwritten and illegible. The book shows itself as the corpus, as the corpse, of the writer. Burn all the bodies so that the book can remain in what is to come, unformed, deformed, reformed, performed, conformed. Blanchot remains. Ten years on: Livre. Vivre. Liberté. Dé-livrance.