On Reading On Reading Horace

by Jack Nachmanovitch





Time folds. In 2019 we read a poem written by Brecht in

1953 reflecting on 1939-1945 as he reads the words of a

poet who lived from 65-8 BC, in another indomitable empire

primed for violent collapse. We look backwards on his

looking backwards. We sense what might lie ahead.



In the curation in which we read “On Reading Horace” there

is an interesting absence, a gap in poems of ten years,

1930-1939: the shift. Years before the war technically

started, the war had already begun. Before most realized.

Shift. The feeling in the air that a torrential rain could begin

at any moment, a new flood.




We all feel it, don’t we? Right now? Everyone else can feel it

too, can’t you? In the air, in the fur standing up like flags on

the back of our necks. We are in another shift. We are on the

verge of something irreversible.



We all intuitively feel it, this tension seeping out of everyone,

this sensation that war will crystalize out of air at any

moment. The sky seems ready to pelt waves of bloody shit

on our beds of skin and green fields of depleted snow — our

oxygen masks and floral tank tops — our ballads about

animals that used to exist back when we learned their

names. If we are already in a shift, can it be reversed or

defused? Or is the atmosphere already supersaturated with

bloodshed yet to come, inescapable?



Black water subsided / True, though, not many / lived to

outlast it.






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