It’s strange. I felt less lonely when I didn’t know you. — Jean-Paul Sartre, The Flies. (1943)
Eroticism is the brink of the abyss. I’m leaning out over deranged horror (at this point my eyes roll back in my head). The abyss is the foundation of the possible. We’re brought to the edge of the same abyss by uncontrolled laughter or ecstasy. From this comes a “questioning” of everything possible. This is… Continue reading Georges Bataille
Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter. — Arthur Rimbaud, from “The Drunken Boat,” Complete Works, Selected Letters (The University of Chicago Press, 2005)
This is how space begins, with words only, signs traced on the blank page. To describe space: to name it, to trace it, like those portolano-makers who saturated the coastlines with the names of harbours, the names of capes, the names of inlets, until in the end the land was only separated from the sea… Continue reading George Perec
There are mountainous, arduous days, up which one takes an infinite time to climb, and downward-sloping days which one can descend at full tilt, singing as one goes. ― Marcel Proust, Swann’s Way. (Vintage; Reissue edition, March 13, 1989) Originally published November 14th 1913.
I’m awaiting a lover. I have to be rent and pulled apart and live according to the demons and the imagination in me. I’m restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again. ― Anaïs Nin, Fire: From A Journal of Love – The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin.… Continue reading Anaïs Nin
Sometimes it is harder to deprive oneself of a pain than of a pleasure and the memory so possessed him that for the moment there was nothing to do but to pretend. ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night. (Scribner; Reprint edition July 1, 1995) Originally published 1934.