“The language in which we speak is his before it is mine. How different the words home, Christ, ale, master, on his lips and on mine! I cannot speak or write these words without unrest of spirit. His language, so familiar and so foreign, will always be for me an acquired speech, I have not made or accepted its words. My voice holds them at bay. My soul frets in the shadow of his language”
— James Joyce- ‘A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man’
2:28 pm • 14 May 2013 • 1 note
From Wallace Stevens- ‘Angel Surrounded by Paysans’
Yet I am the necessary angel of earth,
Since, in my sight, you see the earth again,
Cleared of its stiff and stubborn, man-locked set,
And, in my hearing, you hear its tragic drone
Rise liquidly in liquid lingerings
Like watery words awash; like meanings said
By repetitions of half meanings. Am I not,
Myself, only half of a figure of a sort,
11:47 am • 21 April 2013 • 1 note
“(Samuel Beckett’s) ‘Company’ affirms writing’s power to create worlds that are substantial and significant and that can momentarily hold at bay the chaos of endless multiplicity while at the same time acknowledge it.”
— Kateryna Arthur
8:40 pm • 10 March 2013 • 1 note
“who knows what the ostrich sees in the sand.”
— Samuel Beckett, Murphy
4:04 pm • 27 February 2013 • 5 notes
Martin Esslin
“The Theatre of the Absurd strives to express its sense of the senselessness of the human condition and the inadequacy of the rational approach by the open abandonment of rational devices and discursive thought.”
3:13 pm • 15 February 2013 • 8 notes
“CHINASKI! TAKE ROUTE 539!”
The toughest in the station. Apartment houses with boxes that had scrubbed-out names or no names at all, under tiny lightbulbs in dark halls. Old ladies standing in halls, up and down the streets, asking the same question as if they were one person with one voice:
“Mailman, you got any mail for me?”
And you felt like screaming “Lady, how the hell do I know who you are or I am or anybody is?”
— Charles Bukowski, - Post Office
3:59 pm • 19 December 2012 • 1 note
“What possibilities remain for man in a world where the external determinants have become so overpowering that internal impulses no longer carry weight?”
— Milan Kundera - Dialogue on the Art of the Novel
4:19 pm • 13 December 2012 • 4 notes
“I am stoned and tipsy. We only leaned, a lean means nothing. I lean all the time, I have bad posture from depression.”
10:03 pm • 4 November 2012 • 22 notes
“Prithee, my dear
Why are we here
Nobody knows
We go to sleep
As breathing flows
My mind secedes
I bleed”
— Pixies- I bleed
3:42 pm • 17 September 2012 • 4 notes
