Herta Müller, in 2009. “I wasn’t trying to write literature, I just put it down on paper to gain a foothold, to get a grip on my life.”
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)
Quando a realidade me entra pelos olhos, o meu pequeno mundo desaba. — Angústia - Graciliano Ramos (via avidaemfrases)
“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)
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)
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. —
howbraillesounds you have beautiful handwriting. Also, I hate numbers too.
Asking itualac, acollectionofsleeplessnights, and lovaboxa to spill some ink.