The past beats inside me like a second heart.
We do not grow up; all we do is grow dull.
But then, at what moment, of all our moments, is life not utterly, utterly changed, until the final, most momentous change of all? We
Of her blood. Oh, I do not say these are
The dead are my dark matter, filling up impalpably the empty spaces of the world.
If that child dreaming by the wireless had been asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, what I had become was more or less what he would have described, in however halting a fashion, I am sure of...
I marvelled, not for the first time, at the cruel complacency of ordinary things. But no, not cruel, not complacent, only indifferent, as how could they be otherwise? Henceforth, I would have to addre...
You know, artists don't really have all that much experience of life. We make a huge amount out of the small experience that we do have.
Whom now would I love, and who would love me?
Przeszłość bije we mnie niczym drugie serce.
None of this means anything. Anything of significance, that is. I am just amusing myself, musing, losing myself in a welter of words. For words in here are a form of luxury, of sensuousness, they are...
You will remember this when all else fades, this moment, here, together, by this well. There will be certain days, and certain nights, you’ll feel my presence near you, hear my voice. You’ll think you...
Pomieszczenie wyglądało tak, jak je zapamiętałem. Albo wyglądało, jak gdyby było takie, jakim je zapamiętałem, gdyż z reguły wspomnienia dopasowują się niezauważalnie do rzeczy i miejsc z odwiedzanej...
Lots of water under that bridge, let’s not drown ourselves in it.
Tal vez el amor no nace ahí, no en un repentino arrebato de passion, sino en el reconocimiento y la sencilla aceptación de, de algo que no sé qué es
I think I am becoming my own ghost.
Belief is hard, and the abyss is always there, under one's feet.
Pacjent - powiedziała mi pewnego dnia Anna, już blisko końca - to dziwne słowo. Cierpliwy. A ja wcale nie jestem cierpliwa.
What I was afraid of was my own grief, the weight of it, the ineluctable corrosive force of it, and the stark awareness I had of being, for the first time in my life, entirely alone, a Crusoe shipwrec...
The steel kettle shone, a slow furl of steam at its spout, vaguely suggestive of genie and lamp. Oh, grant me a wish, just the one.