Archive for May, 2009

With Harold’s purple crayon?

Life is the art of drawing without an eraser.

John W. Gardner




I’m Tired

This is how I feel, but funny.

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Up down, left right

I’m obsessed—it wakes me up.

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How witty is the Street’s verse? They are all so good—I want to start quoting, but you should just watch it and I should just finish my paper.

A Magic

The realists do not take the photograph for a “copy” of reality, but for an emanation of past reality, a magic, not an art.

— Roland Barthes


I wish I could find an event that meant as much as simple seeing.

—Theodore Roethke


I’m not depressed; I’m just paralyzed by hope. 

Maria Bamford


Ronald had just put on an old Coleman Hawkins record and La Maga seemed resentful that the explanation was ruining the music, and besides, it wasn’t what she usually expected from an explanation, a tingling of the skin, a need to breathe deeply as Hawkins must have breathed just before taking another turn at the melody and as she would breathe when Horacio would deign to explain some really deep line of poetry for her, adding to it that other fabulous depth which could have been now if he instead of Gregorovius had been explaining this business about Lutetians, and how he would have made it blend into Hawkins music, along with the green candles, a tickle, a deep breath which would be the only she could be sure of, something comparable only to Rocamadour or Horacio’s lips or sometimes an adagio from Mozart that could barely be heard because the record was in such bad shape.
— Hopscotch (by Julio Cortázar, translated by Gregory Rabassa)