Barry Graham's Blog, page 17

Never resort to the use of irony; if sincerity isn’t enough, be silent.
Forget the self. Artists are boring; it’s the art that matters. If you just want attention, go out in the street and pull your pants down. Don’t write anything you don’t have to write.
Don’t make people less than they are.
Don’t write for other people, and don’t write for yourself. Just write.
Don’t lie.
Don’t be fearful.
Don't say more than needs to be said. White space is as important as words. Aim to get as close as possible...

Ding dong dell
Pussy's in the well

Who put her in?
Little Johnny Thin

Who pulled her out?
People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals

grey wind
chasing brown leaves
on broken path

"I don't believe you'd like it
You wouldn't like it here
There ain't no entertainment
And the judgments are severe"
— Leonard Cohen

Of Darkness and Light , by me. It’s been making people sleep with the light on since 1989. The sequel, The High Place, will be published soon.

The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner by James Hogg. In my opinion, the greatest Scottish novel ever. I wrote about it, and others, in this essay.

Carnacki the Ghost-Finder  by William Hope Hodgson. A classic, far ahead of its time. Here’s an essay I wrote about it. Also, I wrote The Host, a Thomas Carnacki story set in modern Sco...

This month is the centenary of the Russian revolution. Of all I've read about it, the best is China Mieville's recent book October, a piece of historical scholarship that reads like the best of his novels.

Lion's Roar reports the death of Aaron Lee, who blogged for years as The Angry Asian Buddhist. He was one of the best Buddhist writers online — fierce, intellectually rigorous, compassionate, and honest. His death at age 34 is a loss to Dharma discourse. I hope someone will publish a book of his writing. 

Endless bows. Gate gate paragate parasangate bodhi svaha.

R.H. Blyth wrote:

A haiku is not a poem, it is not literature; it is a hand beckoning, a door half-opened, a mirror wiped clean. It is a way of returning to nature, to our moon nature, our cherry blossom nature, our falling leaf nature, in short, to our Buddha nature. It is a way in which the cold winter rain, the swallows of evening, even the very day in its hotness, and the length of the night, become truly alive, share in our humanity, speak their own silent and expressive language.

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