Miss Holiday Golightly, Travelling.

July 30, 2012 § Leave a comment

“I went out into the hall and leaned over the banister, just enough to see without being seen. She was still on the stairs, now she had reached the landing, and the ragbag colours of her boy’s hair, tawny streaks, strands of albino-blond and yellow, caught the hall light. It was a warm evening, nearly summer, and she wore a slim cool black dress, black sandals, a pearl choker. For all her chic thinness, she had an almost breakfast cereal air of health, a soap and lemon cleanness, a rough pink darkening in the cheeks. Her mouth was large, her nose upturned. A pair of dark glasses blotted out her eyes. It was a face beyond childhood, yet this side of belonging to a woman. I thought her anywhere between sixteen and thirty; as it turned out, she was shy two months of her nineteenth birthday.”


July 29, 2012 § Leave a comment

L’ho provato sulla mia pelle

qui veut fait l’ange

July 29, 2012 § Leave a comment

L’homme n’est ni ange ni bête, et le malheur veut que qui veut faire l’ange fait la bête.

— Extrait du ‘Discours sur les Passions de l’Amour’ de Blaise Pascal


July 25, 2012 § Leave a comment

Down yellow-green paths bright

Hand in hand,



No history lasting —


Cut quick

Those golden-rosed youth;

Those milky infants too soon bitten.

By some lord frighted, struck —

The two: sundered !


He: flailing,

She: dewy spirals, turning


Sun-hot new fruit

Still grainy with earth,

Upward curling in parts, now:

Cooling separate.


The ruddy-faced boy: with fists stony,

The hazy girl: turning tricks



July 25, 2012 § Leave a comment

For to stay, though the hours burn in the night, is to freeze and crystallize and be bound in a mould.

— Kahlil Gibran, from ‘The Coming of the Ship’

by Philip Larkin

July 22, 2012 § Leave a comment

Beyond all this, the wish to be alone:

However the sky grows dark with invitation-cards

However we follow the printed directions of sex

However the family is photographed under the flagstaff—

Beyond all this, the wish to be alone.

Beneath it all, desire of oblivion runs:

Despite the artful tensions of the calendar,

The life insurance, the tabled fertility rites,

The costly aversion of the eyes from death—

Beneath it all, desire of oblivion runs.

From Kafka’s diaries, June 1914

July 22, 2012 § Leave a comment

“Don’t you want to join us?” I was recently asked by an acquaintance when he ran across me alone after midnight in a coffeehouse that was already almost deserted.

“No, I don’t,” I said.

Where Am I?

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