I ask myself: is every story that has ever been written in this world, a story of suffering and affliction?
In the world there exists no aesthetic plane, not even the aesthetic plane of goodness.
but the crime is more important than the punishment. I enliven all of me in my happy instinct for destruction.
Do not mourn the dead. They know what they are doing.
I write and that way rid myself of me and then at last I can rest.
And now — now it only remains for me to light a cigarette and go home. Dear God, only now am I remembering that people die. Does that include me?Don’t forget, in the meantime, that this is the season for strawberries. Yes.
there are indestructible things that accompany the body to death as if they had been born with it. And one of them is what is created between a man and a woman who have experienced certain moments together.
It was darker, all she could see of him was a shadow. He was fading more and more, slipping through her hands, dead at the bottom of sleep.
Sometimes writing a single line is enough to save your own heart.
There were two ways of looking at it: imagining that it was far away and big, in the first place; in the second, that it was small and near. But at any rate, a stupid, hard, brown mountain. How she hated nature sometimes.
Where does music go when it’s not playing?—she asked herself. And disarmed she would answer: May they make a harp out of my nerves when I die.
Love is now, is always. All that is missing is the coup de grâce- which is called passion.
I carry out sun rituals on the slopes of high mountains. But I am also taboo for myself, untouchable because forbidden.
It is instead just the grace of a common person turning suddenly real because he is common and human and recoignizable.
She felt the phrase “demand her rights” had lain inside her forever, waiting.
But she didn’t want to rest! – Her blood ran through her more slowly, its pace domesticated, like a beast that had trained its steps to fit in its cage.
When I think of what I already lived through it seems to me I was shedding my bodies along the paths.
Ela acreditava em anjo e, porque acreditava, eles existiam” | “She believed in angels, and, because she believed, they existed
I am blinded. I open my eyes wide and only see. But the secret – that I neither see nor feel. Could I be making here a true orgy of what’s behind thought?
Could it be that the person who sees most, feels and suffers most?
What I want is to live of that initial and primordial something that was what made some things reach the point of aspiring to be human.
Before her birth was she an idea? Before her birth was she dead? And after her birth she would die? What a thin slice of watermelon.
Reality prior to my language exists as an unthinkable thought. . . . life precedes love, bodily matter precedes the body, and one day in its turn language shall have preceded possession of silence.
Since God doesn’t have a name, I’ll give him the name of Simptar. It doesn’t come from any language. I give myself the name Amptala. As far as I know no such name exists. Perhaps in a language earlier than Sanskrit, an it-language.
The world’s continual breathing is what we hear and call silence.
I’ is merely one of the world’s instantaneous spasms.
I just know that I don’t want cheating. I refuse. I deepened myself but I don’t believe in myself because my thought is invented.
Suddenly I’ve become so restless that I’m capable of saying “That is enough” and ending what I’m writing you, which is based mostly on blind words.
But after much thought, I have come to the conclusion that there is nothing more difficult in this world than to surrender completely. This is one of man’s greatest sorrows.
Dying is something else. Dying is different to good and bad.
The steel suddenly touched her heart. Ah, jealousy, it was jealousy, the cold hand mashing her slowly, squeezing her, diminishing her soul.
Inside her it was as if death didn’t exist, as if love could weld her, as if eternity were renewal.
Who hasn’t asked himself, am I a monster or is this what it means to be human?
It’s hard for me to believe that I will die. Because I’m bubbling in a frigid freshness. My life is going to be very long because each instant is. The impression is that I’m still to be born and I can’t quite manage it.
I can feel myself holding a child, thought Joanna. Sleep, my child, sleep, I tell you. The child is warm and I am sad.
– How does it feel to have a daughter?- At times it’s like holding a warm egg in my hand.