There was nothing to say about this so we did not say anything […]
—Ernest Hemingway, True at first light: A Fictional Memoir. Scribner, 2000
I think about you. But I don’t say it anymore.” Marguerite Duras, from Hiroshima, Mon Amour
i want to cry because instrumental music can be so beautiful
"…and remember all these things you let float away…"
Have eyes for Beauty only,
That has no eyes for you.” Edna St. Vincent Millay, from My Spirit, Sore From Marching
I can’t feel a thing; All mournful petal storms are dancing inside the very private spring of my head.” Franz Kafka to Milena
It’s not about the words. It’s about the memories lost inside the words.” Virginia Woolf, from Selected Letters
So many beautiful, manageable heads. If only we were
allowed a hundred different joys. What a radical idea. No
goodness will get you far. Your loveliness is measured
by the number of poor things you’ve dazzled. Add in
an old city ruin, and some translated light, which
is foreign and sounds cool, but cannot be understood.
Goodness is contrived. No one wants it. It’s before
breakfast and already our hearts have gone bad.
Yesterday I watched two birds fight over the same
blue square of sky. The philosophers say if you take
something you don’t love in your arms and unhurt it,
you will be happy. But we are not happy. Everything
electrical is not light. All over there are crowds
of people waiting to be caressed. Every bed in the world
was manufactured for just a few. We are magnolia
white, spoon light, leftover flight. We are spiny
and unforgivable. It is good to ache and be wise for it.
You come back in the door that I’ve walked out of.
It’s ceremonial. It’s revolving. The back of your beautiful
head. Your hands are here; I can’t tell where, but it is
the best kind of uncertainty. Happiness is when everything
inside you goes out and comes back in, newly.” Kimberly Grey, Somehow, We are a We
To seek a true feeling among the chaos of the unfeelings or half-feelings of life, to recognize it when found, and to accept the consequences of the discovery […]” Virginia Woolf, from Night And Day
I will admit that reason is a good thing. No argument about that. But reason is only reason, and it only satisfies man’s rational requirements. Desire, on the other hand, is the manifestation of life itself—of all of life—and it encompasses everything from reason down to scratching oneself. And although, when we’re guided by our desires, life may often turn into a messy affair, it’s still life and not a series of extractions of square roots. I, for instance, instinctively want to live, to exercise all the aspects of life in me and not only reason, which amounts to perhaps one-twentieth of the whole. And what does reason know? It only knows what it has had time to learn. Many things will always remain unknown to it. That must be said even if there’s nothing encouraging in it.” Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground