"I explained the conditions of the gift. Paradoxically, I felt both a ‘nostalgie’ for the book I should have written, and now never would, and a fear that the guest, the specter, would never abandon me. I hung up the receiver and repeated, like a wish, these resigned words: ‘Simply the thing I am shall make me live.’ I had invented exercises to awaken the antique memory; I had now to seek others to erase it. One of many was the study of the mythology of William Blake, that rebellious disciple of Swedenborg. I found it to be less complex than merely complicated. That and other paths were futile; all led me to Shakespeare. I hit at last upon the only solution that gave hope courage: strict, vast music—Bach."

— Jorge Luis Borges, ‘Shakespeare’s Memory’ (1983)

(Source: homilius)

"Quando a realidade me entra pelos olhos, o meu pequeno mundo desaba."

Angústia - Graciliano Ramos (via avidaemfrases)

theparisreview:

“As a reader—and I am more of a reader than a writer, we all are, I suppose—I can enjoy a good story, but in a novel, which takes time to read, a good story is not enough for me. If I close a book and there are no echoes, that is very frustrating. I like books that aren’t only witty or ingenious. I prefer something that leaves a resonance, an atmosphere behind. That is what happens to me when I read Shakespeare and Proust. There are certain illuminations or flashes of things that convey a completely different way of thinking. I’m using words that have to do with light because sometimes, as I believe Faulkner said, striking a match in the middle of the night in the middle of a field doesn’t permit you to see anything more clearly, but to see more clearly the darkness that surrounds you. Literature does that more than anything else. It doesn’t properly illuminate things, but like the match it lets you see how much darkness there is.”
—Javier Marias, The Art of Fiction No. 190

theparisreview:

“As a reader—and I am more of a reader than a writer, we all are, I suppose—I can enjoy a good story, but in a novel, which takes time to read, a good story is not enough for me. If I close a book and there are no echoes, that is very frustrating. I like books that aren’t only witty or ingenious. I prefer something that leaves a resonance, an atmosphere behind. That is what happens to me when I read Shakespeare and Proust. There are certain illuminations or flashes of things that convey a completely different way of thinking. I’m using words that have to do with light because sometimes, as I believe Faulkner said, striking a match in the middle of the night in the middle of a field doesn’t permit you to see anything more clearly, but to see more clearly the darkness that surrounds you. Literature does that more than anything else. It doesn’t properly illuminate things, but like the match it lets you see how much darkness there is.”

Javier Marias, The Art of Fiction No. 190

"Man shouldn’t be able to see his own face – there’s nothing more sinister. Nature gave him the gift of not being able to see it, and of not being able to stare into his own eyes.Only in the water of rivers and ponds could he look at his face. And the very posture he had to assume was symbolic. He had to bend over, stoop down, to commit the ignominy of beholding himself.The inventor of the mirror poisoned the human heart."

— Fernando Pessoa (via blackestdespondency)

(via inexorable-solitude)

pixography:

M.C. Escher ~ “Circle Limit With Butterflies”, 1950

pixography:

M.C. Escher ~ “Circle Limit With Butterflies”, 1950

"Cities have often been compared to language: you can read a city, it’s said, as you read a book. But the metaphor can be inverted. The journeys we make during the reading of a book trace out, in some way, the private spaces we inhabit. There are texts that will always be our dead-end streets; fragments that will be bridges; words that will be like the scaffolding that protects fragile constructions. T.S. Eliot: a plant growing in the debris of a ruined building; Salvador Novo: a tree-lined street transformed into an expressway; Tomas Segovia: a boulevard, a breath of air; Roberto Bolano: a rooftop terrace; Isabel Allende: a (magically real) shopping mall; Gilles Deleuze: a summit; and Jacques Derrida: a pothole. Robert Walser: a chink in the wall, for looking through to the other side; Charles Baudelaire: a waiting room; Hannah Arendt: a tower, an Archimedean point; Martin Heidegger: a cul-de-sac; Walter Benjamin: a one-way street walked down against the flow."

— Valeria Luiselli, “Relingos: The Cartography of Empty Spaces” (via invisiblestories)

(via mythologyofblue)

"We were seized by a frenzy: we began to gallop across the continent, through the savannas and forests that had recovered the earth, burying cities and roads, obliterating all trace of what had been. And we trumpeted, lifting up to the sky our trunks and our long, thin tusks, shaking the shaggy hair of our croups with the violent anguish that takes hold of all us young mammoths when we realize that now is when life begins, and yet it is clear that what we desire we shall never have."

— "The Daughters of the Moon" by Italo Calvino

"And I will look down and see my murmuring bones and the deep water like wind, like a roof of wind, and after a long time they cannot distinguish even bones upon the lonely and inviolate sand."

— The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner

"Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes."

C.G. Jung 

(via leaveyouapen)

howbraillesounds you have beautiful handwriting. Also, I hate numbers too.

Asking itualac, acollectionofsleeplessnights, and lovaboxa to spill some ink.

howbraillesounds you have beautiful handwriting. Also, I hate numbers too.

Asking itualac, acollectionofsleeplessnights, and lovaboxa to spill some ink.

Tags: handwriting

excdus:

Yayoi Kusama

I’m here but nothing

Yayoi Kusama began hallucinating spots atop the surfaces of her world at a young age. In these polka dots, at once simple and boundless, Kusama found a way to break from the self and look into infinity.

(via fvghvg)

"

INTERVIEWER

But these are examples from homogeneous cultures. How representative of the American nation would you say Negro folklore is?

ELLISON

The history of the American Negro is a most intimate part of American history. Through the very process of slavery came the building of the United States. Negro folklore, evolving within a larger culture which regarded it as inferior, was an especially courageous expression. It announced the Negro’s willingness to trust his own experience, his own sensibilities as to the definition of reality, rather than allow his masters to define these crucial matters for him. His experience is that of America and the West, and is as rich a body of experience as one would find anywhere. We can view it narrowly as something exotic, folksy, or “low-down,” or we may identify ourselves with it and recognize it as an important segment of the larger American experience—not lying at the bottom of it, but intertwined, diffused in its very texture. I can’t take this lightly or be impressed by those who cannot see its importance; it is important to me. One ironic witness to the beauty and the universality of this art is the fact that the descendants of the very men who enslaved us can now sing the spirituals and find in the singing an exaltation of their own humanity. Just take a look at some of the slave songs, blues, folk ballads; their possibilities for the writer are infinitely suggestive. Some of them have named human situations so well that a whole corps of writers could not exhaust their universality. For instance, here’s an old slave verse:


Ole Aunt Dinah, she’s just like me

She work so hard she want to be free

But ole Aunt Dinah’s gittin’ kinda ole

She’s afraid to go to Canada on account of the cold.

________________________________________________________

Ole Uncle Jack, now he’s a mighty “good nigger”

You tell him that you want to be free for a fac’

Next thing you know they done stripped the skin off your back.

________________________________________________________

Now ole Uncle Ned, he want to be free

He found his way north by the moss on the tree

He cross that river floating in a tub

The patroller give him a mighty close rub.

It’s crude, but in it you have three universal attitudes toward the problem of freedom. You can refine it and sketch in the psychological subtleties and historical and philosophical allusions, action and whatnot, but I don’t think its basic definition can be exhausted. Perhaps some genius could do as much with it as Mann has done with the Joseph story.

"

Ralph Ellison, The Art of Fiction #8 (via everythingsallright)

homosexualityandcivilization:

Two Nymphs Embracing by Berthe Morisot, 1892.

homosexualityandcivilization:

Two Nymphs Embracing by Berthe Morisot, 1892.

"With looks disheveled, flushed in a sweat of drunkenness
His shirt torn open, a song on his lips and wine cup in his hand
With eyes looking for trouble, lips softly complaining
So at midnight last night he came and sat at my pillow…"

— خواجه شمس‌ دین محمد حافظ شیرازی‎

(Source: homosexualityandcivilization)

Tags: Hafez