She was breathing hard, and deep circles of red burned high on her bright cheeks; in all my life I had never seen anyone so maddeningly beautiful as she was at that moment. I stood blinking stupidly a...
See? said Boris, interrupting Vitya right in
Over and over again, Harriet read the story about Lazarus in the Bible, but it refused to address even the most basic questions. What had Lazarus to say to Jesus and his sisters about his week in the...
La gente muere, eso está claro. Pero la pérdida de ciertos objetos es tan trágica e innecesaria... Por puro descuido. En incendios y en guerras. Como el Partenón, que utilizaron como almacén de pólvor...
La belleza es terror. Temblamos ante todo lo que llamamos bello.
Joan Miró: You can look at a picture for a week and never think of it again. You can also look at a picture for a second and think of it all your life
It was six o’clock in the morning, and the sun was rising over the mountains, and the birches, and the impossibly green meadows; and to me, dazed with night and no sleep and three days on the highway,...
Isn’t everything worthwhile a gamble? Can’t good come around sometimes through some strange back doors?
For if the modern mind is whimsical and discursive, the classical mind is narrow, unhesitating, relentless.
Every time I thought of it my stomach squirmed, so that my first instinct was to slam the lid down hard and think of something else.
Ed è una tentazione per qualsiasi persona intelligente, e specialmente per perfezionisti come gli antichi e noi, cercare di uccidere l'io primitivo, emozionale, animale. Ma è un errore.Perché? chiese...
But when she was annoyed with me, she had a cold way of saying Apparently in answer to almost anything I said, making me feel stupid. Um, I can’t find the can opener. Apparently. There’s going to be a...
At her tone, at once intimate and formal, a terrible sadness came over me, and when we looked at each other it seemed that the whole past was redefined and brought into focus by this moment, clear as...
And maybe I was coping awfully well, I don’t know. Certainly I wasn’t howling aloud or punching my fist through windows or doing any of the things I imagined people might do who felt as I did. But som...
While I was still in Amsterdam, I dreamed about my mother for the first time in years.
When what she needed was something concrete, some small final memory to slip its hand in hers and accompany her—sightless now, stumbling—through this sudden desert of existence which stretched before...
There was a horrible, erratic thumping in my chest, as if a large bird was trapped inside my ribcage and beating itself to death.
She cast a charmed theatrical light about her so that to see anything through her eyes was to see it in brighter colors than ordinary.
Maybe it’s stupid to even articulate such hopes. But, then again, maybe it’s more stupid not to.
I’ve come to realize that the only truths that matter to me are the ones I don’t, and can’t, understand. What’s mysterious, ambiguous, inexplicable. What doesn’t fit into a story, what doesn’t have a...