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 I know the general outline of despair. A very small shape, defined by jewels worn in the hair. That’s despair. A pearl necklace for which no clasp can be found and whose existence can’t even hang by a thread. That's despair for you.
— André Breton, The Verb to Be (fragment)
Donna Tartt, photographed at the Argosy Book Store, on East 59th Street in New York City, for Vanity Fair, November 2013
Reposted bymllescribblertovenoelyaelegie
Book of the year: Roald Dahl, Kiss, Kiss. Damn, this year was really not bad when it comes to books! I've enjoyed pretty much everything that I've read this year, and even though it wasn't 75 books as intended (less than 30), most of them were long and demanding, and I really enjoyed every single one, some more, some less, but no dislikes. Dahl has won in the end because of his references to neuroscience (sic! brain preservation and sensory perception), kinky winks (sadism, domination, and fetishism), and the noir vibe. Delish! (imagine I'm licking my rouged lips now)
When he was dying, the emperor Vespasian is supposed to have joked that "I think I am becoming a god" (Suetonius, Vespasian 23.4). It is a joke with a serious message. Strange things happen when men become gods. Divinity distorts discourse, and the consequences can be perverse.
— Alastair Blanchard, Sex: Vice and Love from Antiquity to Modernity
If only I could feel about sex as I do about writing! That I’m the vehicle, the medium, the instrument of some force beyond myself.
— Susan Sontag, As Consciousness Is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals and Notebooks, 1964-1980
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'I certainly should have,' he agrees, smiling and thinking what an absurd and universally-accepted bit of nonsense it is, that your best friends must necessarily be the ones who best understand you.
— Christopher Isherwood, A Single Man
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Let people alone. Let them find their way. Let them find their level and you may sometimes be delighted and astonished at the extraordinary high level to which they'll rise if they're let alone.
— William Robertson Davies, Gzowski on FM
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William Blake, Auguries of Innocence
Reposted fromMoonTide MoonTide viamuviell muviell
3. When she is sad, are you on the phone or are you at her door? Words do not wipe away tears, fingers do.
— Nishat Ahmed, Things I Want to Ask Your Boyfriend, fragment (this poem annoys me because most of its content, especially the repeated no. 7, "Do you love her?," is just kitschy. Maybe for me only with my boyfriend problems, maybe, in fact, it is a good poem about rejection and loss, and change, but I don't think so. Read all those strikingly similar words already. But this part, especially the second half of the verse, haunts me for some time now, because, kitsch apart, it describes my thoughts and feelings, and experience well. I cannot deal with that. I don't know how, other than by thinking of choosing no attempts at addressing my tears whatsoever. Or maybe I'm just bored, not even melancholic; I don't feel any love, or rejection, or loss anymore)
Reposted byfuegoenlasangre fuegoenlasangre
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Favourite book of the year: Delta of Venus by Anaïs Nin. I don't think I've become too horny or obsessed with the philosophy of gender. It started by chance and continued by chance (serendipity is too big of a word but...) I read Nin's journals, only knowing she'd been Henry Miller's lover. They were  bizarre, not necessarily in a flattering way, but dealing with bisexuality in a way that is more honest, more open, and letting itself show more honest curiosity than anything you can find on bisexuals these days (she touched what crosses my mind at times, that bisexuals feel more not because they are promiscuous or turned on all the time, but because biology makes them more attending to humans in a multitude of ways, and these ways go way beyond interest in whether fellow humans are wet. Actually, that's the least important thing.) Then I found Delta at Oxfam, it was two pounds. My mind reacted more to her sense of humour (there was a... I called her the lesbian equivalent of Lord Henry. Leila was so dandy that all cocks seemed bleak in comparison to her) than my body did to the sexual content per se
Reposted byatena atena
'Do you know what pleasure is, Yvonne?' . . .
'Pleasure?' . . .
'It's a state of hightened activity in the mesolimbic dopamine system.'
'I pity your boyfriend,' quips Gillian.
We laugh. It's neuroscience laughter.  And for me, at least, it hurts.
— Charles Fernyhough, A Box of Birds
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The serenity and the transcendence of self that you found are to me exemplary. You showed that it is not necessary to be unhappy, even while one is clear-eyed and undeluded about how terrible everything is. Somewhere you said that a writer — delicately you added: all persons — must think that whatever happens to him or her is a resource. (You were speaking of your blindness.)
— Susan Sontag, Letter to Borges, an essay created in June 1996 (to commemorate the tenth anniversary of Borges' death). It appeared in the 2001 collection of Sontag's essays, Where the Stress Falls (my next thing to read)
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