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"Then the world seemed a dream to me and the fiction of a god; colorful smoke before the eyes of a divine dissatisfied being."
On the HinterworldlyKitabı okuyor
Quora
Postmodernism is an intellectual dead end; it’s central premise seems to be derived from a saying of Nietzsche’s, “There are no facts; only interpretations”, which is thought to mean that each one of us views “reality” through our individual perspective. This is true to a degree, but as with so many aphorisms, there are limits to its validity;
1. suppose i were to begin by saying that i had fallen in love with a color. suppose i were to speak this as though it were a confession; suppose I shredded my napkin as we spoke. it began slowly. an appreciation, an affinity. then, one day, it became more serious. then (looking into an empty teacup, its bottom stained with thin brown excrement coiled into the shape of a sea horse) it became somehow personal.
Sayfa 1 - wave books yayınları
If from great Nature’s or our own abyss
Of thought we could but snatch a certainty,
Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss,
But then ’twould spoil much good philosophy.
Something shifted in me then, like the frozen surface of the Apidanos in
spring. I had seen the way he looked at Deidameia; or rather the way he did not. It was the same way he had looked at the boys in Phthia, blank and
unseeing. He had never, not once, looked at me that way.
What’s the problem? Whatever. Those who have known each other for decades can become strangers in a day. We met by chance, and we may part by chance. If we like each other then we shall continue to meet; if we don’t then we shall part. There’s no banquet in the world that doesn’t come to an end, so I’ll say what I want to say.
"I'm in love with you, Roman."
"Then we share the same problem, malysh."
'' Question for you, Neil. Do I look dead to you?" He pointed up at his face, waited for Neil to answer, and didn't seem surprised when Neil didn't. "Here."
Andrew beckoned Neil closer as if he wanted to show Neil something on his phone's small screen. He flipped the phone open one-handed and pressed down hard on a single button. There was silence, then the distant hum of Andrew's phone dialing out. Between them Neil's phone started to sing. The words were different than Andrew's ringtone, but the voice was the same. Neil knew it was from the same miserable song. The lyrics hurt just as much as Andrew's had. Neil stared down at the phone and let it ring.
"Your phone is ringing," Andrew said. "You should answer it."
Neil picked it up with numb fingers and opened it. He spared only a second to look at Andrew's name on the screen before he answered and put it to his ear.
"Your parents are dead, you are not fine, and nothing is going to be okay," Andrew said. "This is not news to you. But from now until May you are still Neil Josten and I am still the man who said he would keep you alive.
"I don't care if you use this phone tomorrow. I don't care if you never use it again. But you are going to keep it on you because one day you might need it." Andrew put a finger to the underside of Neil's chin and forced Neil's head up until they were looking at each other. "On that day you're not going to run. You're going to think about what I promised you and you're going to make the call. Tell me you understand."
“Say that his power lies in words and looks; in things so slight and insignificant that it is impossible to add and count 'em up: what then? The happiness [Fezziwig] gives is quite as great as if it cost a fortune.”
Sayfa 83Kitabı okuyor
when ı'd take your hand and sing you songs
then maybe you would say
"come lay with me and love me"
and ı would surely stay
youtu.be/BYECimGwbs8?fea...
"The eyes are the mirror to the soul and right then my soul was very dark."
The desert creeps in on a man's land. Not a fellah, but he does own some land. Did own. From a boy, he has repaired the wall, mortared, carried stone heavy as he, lifted, set in place. Still the desert comes. Is the wall a traitor, letting it in? Is the boy possessed by a djinn who makes his hands do the work wrong? Is the desert's attack too powerful for any boy, or wall, or dead father and mother?
No. The desert moves in. It happens, nothing else. No djinn in the boy, no treachery in the wall, no hostility in the desert. Nothing.
Soon, nothing. Soon only the desert. The two goats must choke on sand, nuzzling down to find the white clover. He, never to taste their soured milk again. The melons die beneath the sand. Never more can you give comfort in the summer, cool abdelawi, shaped like the Angel's trumpet! The maize dies and there is no bread. The wife, the children grow sick and short-tempered. The man, he, runs one night out to where the wall was, begins to lift and toss imaginary rocks about, curses Allah, then begs forgiveness from the Prophet, then urinates on the desert, hoping to insult what cannot be insulted.
They find him in the morning a mile from the the house, skin blued, shivering in a sleep which is almost death, tears turned to frost on the sand.
And now the house begins to fill with desert, like the lower half of an hourglass which will never be inverted again.
What does a man do?
in order to fall asleep
i have to imagine your body
crooked behind mine
spoon ladled into spoon
till i can hear your breath
i have to recite your name
till you answer and
we have a conversation
only then
can my mind
drift off to sleep
- pretend
"On this blue day, you stand for a long time on a high mountain and stare at clouds merging together, covering land and sea. You think you are higher than yourself, like a bird existing onlt in a metaphor. The metaphor entices you to break away from it and look at the empty sky, like a blue desert without mirage to be seen. Then the metaphor calls you back to its source and you cannot find a way through the clouds.
On this blue night, you see the mountains looking at the stars and the stars looking at the mountains. You think they can see you, so you thank them for their affable company. You are reluctant to emerge from the metaphor in case you fall into the well of loneliness."
Sayfa 54 - archipelago books, journal, translated from the Arabic by Catherine CobhamKitabı okuyor
