To dwell on dead others, brings them only feebly to life in ones so partial and limited imagination, but to what end ? dim reminiscences of partys one attended, too many moons before, groping the minutiae of dead events, always seems a little grasping … retentive, and often only catalogued when the people had some small sordid dance on the wheel of fame or worse were friends with someone who did, and these primitive mask faces you speak of, seem everywhere in the circles of power today their hideous grins shining out at you
This in fact – not such a rare thing but stock in trade requirement today.
I’m myself am currently pondering whether the fate of poetry books was merely the forerunner, to the fate of books in general themselves, which area of book publishing could be stated as being in rude health, discounting perhaps small circle of over proportioned stellar masses like rowling and her harry the messiah series etc, the publics limited imagination can seem to hold ? Is the library interior less hideous than its exterior > modernism sometimes works that way, the characterful and elegant arrangement of st pancras’s bricks opposite seem but a foil, to act as a red brick mirror to the bleak blandness of the library, perhaps in testament, to talk of decline and narrowing and the diminishment of the of culture, would perec mid jerk approve ?