Even extreme grief may ultimately vent itself in violence–but more generally takes the form of apathy. ― Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness. (Blackwood’s Magazine 1899 serial; 1902 book)
Droll thing life is—that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose. The most you can hope from it is some knowledge of yourself—that comes too late—a crop of unextinguishable regrets. I have wrestled with death. It is the most unexciting contest you can imagine. It takes place in an impalpable grayness, with nothing… Continue reading Joseph Conrad
for the fifth time this month you say you’re going to leave him he calls you a cunt over the phone then walks the three miles to your house and kisses your mouth until the word is just a place on your body. i don’t know what brings broken people together maybe damage seeks out… Continue reading Warsan Shire
What I remember of the day: soft rain; and the touch of our fingertips’ shy coupling… and the sweet intimacy of our pilgrimage over broken ground and the way you listened with your body leaning into my voice and hearing so deeply far deeper than words the tender heart-beat of unspoken things. — Barbara Grenfell… Continue reading Barbara Grenfell Fairhead
When you write, you should put your skin on the table. ― Louis-Ferdinand Céline, Journey to the End of the Night. (New Directions; Reprint edition, May 17, 2006) Originally published 1932.
We live in the flicker — may it last as long as the old earth keeps rolling! But darkness was here yesterday. — Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness. (Blackwood’s Magazine 1899 serial; 1902 book) Originally published 1899.
There are always mystical countries that are a part of one’s childhood. Those we remember and visit sometimes when we are asleep and dreaming. They are as lovely at night as they were when we were children. If you ever go back to see them they are not there. But they are as fine in… Continue reading Ernest Hemingway,