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Ólafur Arnalds ~ A Sudden Throw

Produced by Martyn Lee

Producer's Notes:
How should one imagine the holocaust? More pertinently perhaps, how can one begin to conceive of rendering the holocaust? : Within a pair of dusty spectacles? Within a gold tooth? Within a pond waist deep in mud? Within a chamber pot or a knot of ancient hair upon the floor of a filthy room? Preserve this fag-end of modernity’s archive, this miserable little piece of the real for all our children.

The holocaust is sublime, a true Kantian sublime: it is far beyond good or evil, it just is, howling as a bloodied fox in the corner of a room we rarely visit, in a house that we have seldom dwelled in but merely glimpsed in shadows from a train window, high upon a European hill, on occasional moonlit winter nights.

Ash on an old man's sleeve
Is all the ash the burnt roses leave.
Dust in the air suspended
Marks the place where a story ended.
Dust inbreathed was a house-
The walls, the wainscot and the mouse,
The death of hope and despair,
This is the death of air.
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