We don’t forget, but something vacant settles in us. — Roland Barthes, Mourning Diary. (Hill and Wang; First Edition edition, October 12, 2010) Advertisements
There is always some limit which the individual accepts. He identifies this limit with himself. Horror seizes him at the thought that this limit may cease to be. But we are wrong to take this limit and the individual’s acceptance of it seriously. The limit is only there to be overreached. Fear and horror are… Continue reading Georges Bataille
Love poured her beauty into my warm veins. — Pierre de Ronsard, “Cassadra’s Beauty (Nature withheld Cassadra in the Skies’),” trans. John Keats, Sonnets, ed. John Hollander (Alfred A. Knopf, 2001)
…the book creates meaning, the meaning creates life. ― Roland Barthes, The Pleasure of the Text. (Hill andWang; Reissue edition, January 1, 1975)
A Winter Dream In winter we’ll travel in a little pink carriageWith cushions of blue.We’ll be fine. A nest of mad kisses waitsIn each corner too. You’ll shut your eyes, not to see, through the glass,Grimacing shadows of evening,Those snarling monsters, a crowd going pastOf black wolves and black demons. Then you’ll feel your cheek… Continue reading Arthur Rimbaud
Life is the farce we are all forced to endure. ― Arthur Rimbaud, Une saison en enfer; Illuminations; et autres texts/ A Season in Hell & Illuminations. Translated by Wyatt Mason. (Modern Library, August 9, 2005) Originally published 1873.
I’m going to smile, and my smile will sink down into your pupils, and heaven knows what it will become. — Jean-Paul Sartre, No Exit and Three Other Plays. (Vintage; Reissue edition, October 23, 1989) Originally published 1947.