Laura
‰ЫПAt night, those huge, inconsolable, rapacious eyes of his are eaten up by swollen, gleaming pupils. His eyes see only appetite. These eyes open to devour the world in which he sees, nowhere, a reflection of himself; he passed through the mirror and now, henceforward, lives as if upon the other side of things.‰Ыќ ... ‰ЫПAs she continued her ministrations, this glass, with infinite slowness, yielded to the reflexive strength of its own material construction. Little by little, there appeared within it, like the image on photographic paper that emerges, first, a formless web of tracery, the prey caught in its own fishing net, then in firmer yet still shadowed outline until at last as vivid as real life itself, as if brought into being by her soft, moist, gentle tongue, finally, the face of the Duke.‰Ыќ
‰ЫПSometimes I like to think that I live with ghosts. Not from my own past ‰ЫУ I don‰ЫЄt believe in those sorts of ghosts ‰ЫУ but wispy bits of ideas and books that hang in the air like silk puppets. Sometimes I think I see my own ideas floating around, too, but they usually don‰ЫЄt last long. ‰Ы_ Some of the most friendly ghosts I live with are those of my favorite nineteenth-century science writers. Most of them were wrong, of course, but who cares? It‰ЫЄs not like this is the end of history. We‰ЫЄre all wrong.‰Ыќ
From the Preface: ‰ЫПIn the republic of letters, there is no member of such inferior rank, or who is so much disdained by his brethren of the quill, as the humble Novelist: nor is his fate less hard in the world at large, since, among the whole class of writers, perhaps not one can be named, of whom the votaries are more numerous, but less respectable. / Yet, while in the annals of those few of our predecessors, to whom this species of writing is indebted for being saved from contempt, and rescued from depravity, we can trace such names as Rousseau, Johnson, Marivaux, Fielding, Richardson, and Smollet, no man need blush at starting from the same post, though many, nay, most men, may sigh at finding themselves distanced.‰Ыќ
‰ЫПIf one wanted to depict the whole thing graphically, every episode, with its climax, would require a three-dimensional model, perhaps four-dimensional, or, rather, no model: every experience is unrepeatable. What makes lovemaking and reading resemble each other most is that within both of them times and spaces open, different from measurable time and space.‰Ыќ
‰ЫПAt times it seems to me that the distance between my writing and her reading is unbridgeable, that whatever I read bears a stamp of artifice and incongruity; if what I am writing were to appear on the polished surface of the page she is reading, it would rasp like a fingernail on a pane, and she would fling the book away with horror.‰Ыќ
‰ЫПBetween the book to be written and things that already exist there can be only a kind of complementary relationship: the book should be the written counterpart of the unwritten world; its subject should be what does not exist except when written, but whose absence is obscurely felt by that which exists, in its own incompleteness.‰Ыќ
‰ЫПRoland was so used to the pervasive sense of failure that he was unprepared for the blood-rush of success. He breathed differently. The dingy little room humped around in his vision briefly and settled at a different distance, an object of interest, not of choking confinement. He reread his letters. The world opened. ‰Ы_ How true it was that one needed to be seen by others to be sure of one‰ЫЄs own existence. Nothing in what he had written had changed and everything had changed.‰Ыќ
‰ЫПAs nights went on and nothing happened and the phenomenon slowly faded to the accustomed deeper violets again, most had difficulty remembering the earlier rise of heart, the sense of overture and possibility, and went back once again to seeking only orgasm, hallucination, stupor, sleep, to fetch them through the night and prepare them against the day.‰Ыќ
‰ЫПMy hands are full of grace, I don‰ЫЄt know if I forgot to say that, like the [N?]ovember waves on the pond, because I know the names of the months, too, all my friends are words. I‰ЫЄm always surprised to note that once the first gust has passed I can be so indifferent to what might happen to men here below, it‰ЫЄs my nature.‰Ыќ
‰ЫПIf San Narciso and the estate were really no different from any other town, any other estate, then by that continuity she might have found The Tristero anywhere in her Republic, through any of a hundred lightly-concealed entranceways, a hundred alienations, if only she‰ЫЄd looked. She stopped a minute between the steel rails, raising her head as if to sniff the air. Becoming conscious of the hard, strung presence she stood on ‰ЫУ knowing as if maps had been flashed for her on the sky how these tracks ran on into others, others, knowing they laced, deepened, authenticated the great night around her. If only she‰ЫЄd looked.‰Ыќ
‰ЫПI envy the easy peace of mind of a ruddy milkmaid, who, undisturbed by doubt, hears the sermon, with humility, every Sunday, not having confounded the sentiments of natural duty in her head by the vain-enquiries of the schoools, who may be more learned, yet, after all, must remain as ignorant.‰Ыќ ‰ЫУ Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, “Letters ... Written, during her Travels in Europe, Asia, and Africa”
‰ЫПEverything seems unreal or unnecessary, everything is dressed up. / All these people moving about, sitting still, in a hurry, catching trains, eating long dinners, dressing themselves, looking at each other dressed ‰ЫУ what does it all mean? Was all this going on when we were in that other world which we have just left, that great silent world where everything was itself and big, and not confused by accessories? Was all this din and bustle going on? It is strange that we should have had no inkling of it, for it seems of so much importance to all these people, idle with a great restlessness; it seems essential to them.‰Ыќ ‰ЫУ Louisa Jebb, “By Desert Ways to Baghdad”
Not exactly the kind of book one is eager to read before and after the day of their wedding; however, be that as it may.
‰ЫПPhotography is the only major art in which professional training and years of experience do not confer an insuperable advantage over the untrained and inexperienced ‰ЫУ this for many reasons, among them the large role that chance (or luck) plays in the taking of pictures, and the bias toward the spontaneous, the rough, the imperfect. (There is no comparable level playing field in literature, where virtually nothing owes to chance or luck and where refinement of language usually incurs no penalty.)‰Ыќ
‰ЫПWhat fine weather this is! Not very becoming perhaps early in the morning, but very pleasant out of doors at noon, and very wholesome ‰ЫУ at least everyone fancies so, and imagination is everything.‰Ыќ
‰ЫПI have now attained the true art of letter-writing, which we are always told, is to express on paper exactly what one would say to the same person by word of mouth; I have been talking to you almost as fast as I could the whole of this letter.‰Ыќ
‰ЫПYou can‰ЫЄt keep it up forever, though. You‰ЫЄre going to burn out sooner or later. Everybody does. It‰ЫЄs the way people are made. In terms of evolutionary history, it was only yesterday that men learned to walk around on two legs and get in trouble thinking complicated thoughts. So don‰ЫЄt worry, you‰ЫЄll burn out.‰Ыќ
‰ЫПThe notion that what is artless must be better than what is not requires a precarious leap in reasoning, but for all that it carries great weight ‰Ы_ It is a shallow conceit. A little reflection shows that all human culture is artificial, cooking no less than music, furniture no less than painting. Why prepare time-consuming sauces when a raw fruit would suffice? Why bother with musical instruments when the voice is pleasant enough? Why paint pictures when looking at nature is satisfying? Why sit up when you can squat? The answer is that it makes life richer, more interesting, and more pleasurable.‰Ыќ
‰ЫПImagine yourself on a winter afternoon with a pot of tea, a book, a reading light, and two or three huge pillows to lean back against. Now make yourself comfortable. Not in some way which you can show to other people, and say how much you like it. I mean so that you really like it, for yourself. You put the tea where you can reach it: but in a place where you can‰ЫЄt possibly knock it over. You pull the light down, to shine on the book, but not too brightly, and so that you can‰ЫЄtsee the naked bulb. You put the cushions behind you, and place them, carefully, one by one, just where you want them, to support your back, your neck, your arm: so that you are supported just comfortably, just as you want to sip your tea, and read, and dream.‰Ыќ (Quoted from Christopher Alexander)
‰ЫПWas everything possible and could anything be done, since it would one day irrevocably be cast aside? Even in heaven eternal bliss would be possible only by the grace of a criminal loss of memory. Should the blessed not be punished with hell for this? Everything had been wrecked for all eternity ‰ЫУ not only here, but by thousands of earlier and later occasions, which no one remembered. Heaven was impossible; only hell might perhaps exist.‰Ыќ
‰ЫПWhen I see your pitiful appearance, I have to think back to the dreadful time when I was still a bachelor. What a nightmare! In my mind‰ЫЄs eye I see a desolate landscape with a single bare tree in the biting wind, into the teeth of which a lonely, stooping pilgrim dressed in rags, with a long staff, is laboring on his way to his mournful end. And now look at me ‰Ы_ I have just attained the highest state of human self-fulfillment: marriage!‰Ыќ
‰ЫПThe sun, on account of the mist, had a curious sentient, personal look, demanding the masculine pronoun for its adequate expression. His present aspect, coupled with the lack of all human forms in the scene, explained the old-time heliolateries in a moment. One could feel that a saner religion had never prevailed under the sky. The luminary was golden-haired, beaming-faced, mild-eyed, God-like creature, gazing down in the vigour and intentness of youth upon an earth that was brimming with interest for him.‰Ыќ
‰ЫПThe past was past; whatever it had been it was no more at hand. Whatever its consequences, time would close over them; they would all in a few years be as if they had never been, and she herself grassed down and forgotten. Meanwhile the trees were just as green as before; the birds sang and the sun shone as clearly now as ever. The familiar surroundings had not darkened because of her grief, nor sickened because of her pain.‰Ыќ
A (tiny) collection of translated Dutch short stories. Only one story really grabbed me; some were okay, others were ehhh. The quote following is the first paragraph of my favourite.
‰ЫПAs she switches off the alarm, can I hear it ringing in reverse? Once absorbed by the dreamer into his dream, even the briefest, most insignificant bedroom event appears complete with a history of its own, and so quickly that cause and effect seem to have changed places. Or was I just hearing the alarm ring the whole time? Sometimes the question only dawns on you a few minutes later.‰Ыќ ‰ЫУ Nicolaas Matsier, ‰ЫПIndefinite Delay‰Ыќ
‰ЫПShort of examining the entire history of each individual participating; ‰Ы_ short of anatomizing each soul, what hope has anyone of understanding a Situation?‰Ыќ
‰ЫПMy own unlucky boy, didn‰ЫЄt you ever think maybe ours is an act too? We‰ЫЄre older than you, we lived inside you once: the fifth rib, closest to the heart. We learned all about it then. After that it had to become our game to nourish a heart you all believe is hollow though we know different. Now you all live inside us, for nine months, and when ever you decide to come back after that.‰Ыќ
‰ЫПSomething he knew he missed: the flower of life. But he thought of it now as a thing so unattainable and improbable that to have repined would have been like despairing because one had not drawn the first prize in a lottery. There were a hundred million tickets in his lottery, and there was only one prize; the chances had been too decidedly against him.‰Ыќ
‰ЫПWe have the tools and the means to share resources, clean up pollution, dispense basic health care and birth control, set economic limits in line with natural ones. If we don‰ЫЄt do these things now, while we prosper, we will never be able to do them when times get hard. Our fate will twist out of our hands. And this new century will not grow very old before we enter an age of chaos and collapse that will dwarf all the dark ages in our past.‰Ыќ Yeehaw!
