I hate solitude, but I am afraid of intimacy. The substance of my life is a private conversation with myself which to turn into a dialogue would be equivalent to self-destruction. — Iris Murdoch, Under the Net. (Chatto & Windus 1954) Advertisements
Vladimir: Did I ever leave you? Estragon: You let me go. ― Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot. (Grove Press; 1 edition, May 17, 2011) Originally published 1952. Premiered 5 January 1953 at theThéâtre de Babylone, Paris France.
But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires. — James Joyce, from “Araby,” Dubliners. (Grant Richards Ltd., London June 1914)
saying again if you do not teach me I shall not learn saying again there is a last even of last times last times of begging last times of loving of knowing not knowing pretending a last even of last times of saying if you do not love me I shall not be loved if… Continue reading Samuel Beckett
O cloud-pale eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes, The poets labouring all their days To build a perfect beauty in rhyme Are overthrown by a woman’s gaze And by the unlabouring brood of the skies: And therefore my heart will bow, when dew Is dropping sleep, until God burn time, Before the unlabouring stars and you. — W.B. Yeats,… Continue reading W.B. Yeats
Only one thing remains infinitely fascinating to me, the mystery of moods. To be master of these moods is exquisite, to be mastered by them more exquisite still. Sometimes I think that the artistic life is a long and lovely suicide, and am not sorry that it is so. And much of this I fancy… Continue reading Oscar Wilde
Crying is for plain women. Pretty women go shopping. ― Oscar Wilde