You have to be an artist and a madman...
Yo me empecinaba en mi paraíso escogido:Un paraíso cuyos cielos tenían el color de las llamas infernales, pero con todo un paraiso
I sometimes used to ask myself, what on earth did I love her for? Maybe fore the warm hazel iris of her fluffy eyes, or for the natural side-wave of her brown hair, done anyhow, or again for that move...
Words without experience are meaningless.
I loved you. I was a pentapod monster, but I loved you. I was despicable and brutal, and turpid, and everything, mais je t’aimais, je t’aimais!
Wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze.Hair: brown. Lips: scarletAge: five thousand three hundred days.
I loved you. I was a pentapod monster, but I loved you. I was despicable and brutal, and turpid, and everything, mais je t’aimais, je t’aimais! And there were times when I knew how you felt, and it wa...
There is only one real number: one. And love, apparently, is the best exponent of this singularity.
I had once been splintered into a million beings and objects. Today I am one, tomorrow I shall splinter again. And thus everything in the world decants and modulates. That day I was on the crest of a...
I dreamt of you last night - as if I was playing the piano and you were turning the pages for me.
Mnemosyne, one must admit, has shown herself to be a very careless girl.
That swimming, sloping, elusive something about the dark-bluish tint of the iris which seemed still to retain the shadows it had absorbed of ancient, fabulous forests where there were more birds than...
Stilletos of a frozen stillicide [...] In the lovely line heading this comment the reader should note the last word. My dictionary defines it as 'a succession of drops falling from the eaves, eavesdro...
For the human brain can become the best torture house of all those it has invented, established and used in a millions of years, in millions of lands, on millions of howling creatures.
No free man needs a God; but was I free?
Knight seemed to him to be constantly playing some game of his own invention, without telling his partners its rules.
My advice to a budding literary critic would be as follows. Learn to distinguish banality. Remember that mediocrity thrives on ideas. Beware of the modish message. Ask yourself if the symbol you have...
Life is a great sunrise. I do not see why death should not be an even greater one.
But as Van casually directed the searchlight of backthought into that maze of the past where the mirror-lined narrow paths not only took different turns, but used different levels (as a mule-drawn car...
Who can say what heartbreaks are caused in a dog by our discontinuing a romp?
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