Posts Tagged ‘werner herzog’

dull, humourless, uptight, inhibited, mindless, depressing, boring and swaggering

Wednesday, May 11th, 2011

1. Amazing Herzog interview in GQ. You should read this:

I’ve always been suspicious. I don’t even look into my face. I shaved this morning, and I look at my cheeks so that I don’t cut myself, but I don’t even want to know the color of my eyes. I think psychology and self-reflection is one of the major catastrophes of the twentieth century. A major, major mistake. And it’s only one of the mistakes of the twentieth century, which makes me think that the twentieth century in its entirety was a mistake.

If an actor knows how to milk a cow, I always know it will not be difficult to be in business with him.

I think there should be holy war against yoga classes.

11. Interesting thoughts on biography in this review of Avraham Shlonsky.

7. American Short Fiction short-short contest ends in 4 days. Send.

12. Photo montage of writers posing with their typewriters. What is a typewriter?

13. Cathy Day with an interesting post about linked story collections and how to teach such a thing.

What is a novel-in-stories? A linked collection? A story cycle? I find it hard to make distinctions between these terms. Instead, I think of it this way: On one end of the prose spectrum is the traditional linear novel. On the other end is the collection of disparate stories. Linked stories exist on the narrative spectrum between “novel” and “story collection,” and they are unique and valid formal artifacts.


“No storm, no snow, no banks, no money”

Tuesday, November 9th, 2010

How do million dollar math prizes, kids with semi-automatics, a wine bottle full of ocean water, and a sculptor’s pet raven raise themselves in unison? In Werner Herzog’s eloquent and stirring remarks on sublimity is how.

Werner Herzog and Errol Morris on reading

Saturday, September 18th, 2010

Werner Herzog answers Qs from Twitter

Friday, September 3rd, 2010

Many more here. [Via Susan Tomaselli]

PLASTIC BAG WITH VOICE OF WERNER HERZOG

Thursday, March 25th, 2010

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YDBtCb61Sd4

This is awesome. Seriously. Watch and be changed a little.

Three Good Things for Friday

Friday, September 11th, 2009

1. My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done? (Dir. Werner Herzog, Produced by David Lynch)

2. There’s a new champ in town, and he’s into innovation and breaking misconceptions (via Brian Oliu)

3. Remember when major labels put out fucked up music sometimes?

What I Read While I Was In Europe

Friday, August 28th, 2009

With two 10+ hour days of flying, plus several train days sitting between parts of Paris and Italy (including one where Ken and I went on a loop between the two, continually fucking up our connections), I had a lot of time during the 12 days of traveling in Europe with which to spend with my head stuck in a book. As a result, I plowed through 4 books and the beginning of a fifth, all works in translation, including titles by Jacques Roubaud, Alain Robbe-Grillet, Eric Chevillard, Zoran Živković, and Werner Herzog.

Here are some brief thoughts on each:

roubaudThe Great Fire of London by Jacques Roubaud (Dalkey Archive)

Kicked off the trip with this fat badboy from Dalkey, which carried me up to Washington DC and then through several days in Paris. It’s one of the more original premises and executions of a book I’ve seen in a while, and no surprise in that it is from a major Oulipian. Basically, the book is a book about the book itself more than a book of normal concerns. Not quite a writer writing about writing (thank god), but more a writer spooled in the blank space between such, and crushed in his weird onslaught of memory, a dream conceit of trying to compose a novel that never exists, and the crippling brainspace of having lost a wife. Not quite nonfiction, not quite not, a text about text that manages to do a lot of beautiful examinations of life, such as making jelly, and the descriptions of shapes of rooms and light, among which I was surprised at how compelling he was able to keep the compulsion alive across such a massive tome that essentially is all talk of what it is over being what it is, but then extending through that to actually become the blank. Terrifying in the most on-its-face banal of ways, and electric for its method. Felt right to read this one in Paris, which I had not even realized the connection of which (nor, I swear, did I mean to bring all French authors to France, it just happened).

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