And I still have other smothered memories, now unfolding themselves into limbless monsters of pain. Once, in a sunset-ending street of Beardsley, she turned to little Eva Rosen (I was taking both nymp...
10 / : Both nouns belong to the vaguely evocative type of romantic locution so frequent in and so difficult to render by exact English words. ranges from mollitude (Fr. ) , i.e., soft luxuriance, d...
And yet I shall try again: "they are murdering me!"--all right, all together once more: "they are murdering me!" and again: "murdering"... I want to write this in such a way that you will cover your e...
Our imagination flies -- we are its shadow on the earth.
– Az ember úgy érzi… Úgy érzi… – mondta –, hogy csupán valami szerepet játszik, és elfelejtette a következő mondatait.
Моя тоска по родине лишь своеобразнаягипертрофия тоски по утраченному детству.
In a sense, all poetry is positional: to try to express one's position in regard to the universe embraced by consciousness, is an immemorial urge. The arms of consciousness reach out and grope, and th...
[…] a halál nem több, csak a magány végtelen töredékeinek teljesebb kollekciója.
You see, we find comfort in telling ourselves that the world could not exist without us, that it exists only inasmuch as we ourselves exist, inasmuch as we can represent it to ourselves. Death, infini...
You came into my life-not as one comes to visit (you know, not taking one’s hat off) but as one comes to a kingdom where all the rivers have been waiting for your reflection, all the roads, for your s...
Why not leave their private sorrows to people? Is sorrow not, one asks, the only thing in the world people really possess?
When we remember our former selves, there is always that little figure with its long shadow stopping like an uncertain belated visitor on a lighted threshold at the far end of some impeccably narrowin...
What chatty Madam Shpolyanski mentioned had conjured up Mira's image with unusual force. This was disturbing. Only in the detachment of an incurable complaint, in the sanity of near death, could one c...
We think not in words but in shadows of words.
We sat and drank, each with a separate past locked up in him, and fate's alarm clocks set at unrelated futures -- when, at last, a wrist was cocked, and eyes of consorts met.
We hasten to alienate the very fates we intended to woo.
We are still groping perhaps, but we grope intelligently, like a gynecologist feeling a tumor.
To hold her, to keep her -- just as she was -- with her cruelty, with her vulgarity, with her blinding blue eyes, with her miserable poetry, with her fat feet, with her impure, dry, sordid, infantile...
To her he would surrender the remnants of himself at the first trumpet blast of destiny.
To begin with, let us take the following motto...Literature is Love. Now we can continue.