We all entertain hateful thoughts every now and then, and afterwards they either grow stronger or fade away. From one day to the next, in tiny ways, our opinions change or, rather, my opinions change.
posted 1 week ago
Little had he suspected how truly he spoke, when at their third meeting, as she repeated: “But why don’t you let me come to you oftener?” he had told her, laughing, and in a vein of gallantry, that it was for fear of forming a hopeless passion. Now, alas, it still happened at times that she wrote to him from a restaurant or hotel, on paper which bore a printed address, but printed in letters of fire that seared his heart, “It’s written from the Hotel Vouillemont. What on earth can she have gone there fore? With whom? What happened there?” He remembered the gas-jets being extinguished along the Boulevard des Italiens when he had met her against all expectations among the errant shades on that night which had seemed to him almost supernatural and which indeed —a night from a period when he had not even to ask himself whether he would be annoying her by looking for her and finding her, so certain was he that she knew no greater happiness than to see him and to let him take her home —belonged to a mysterious world to which one never may return again once its doors are closed. And Swann could distinguish, standing motionless before that scene of remembered happiness, a wretched figure who filled him with such pity, because he did not at first recognize who it was, that he had to lower his eyes lest anyone should observe that they were filled with tears. It was himself.
- (via hoobinadona)
posted 4 weeks ago
In place of the abstract expressions “the time when I was happy,” “the time when I was loved,” which he had often used before then without suffering too much since his intelligence had not embodied in them anything of the past save fictitious extracts which preserved none of the reality, he now recovered everything that had fixed unalterably the specific, volatile essence of that lost happiness; he could see it all: the snowy, curled petals of the chrysanthemum which she had tossed after him into his carriage, which he had kept pressed to his lips—the address “Maisen Dorée” embossed on the note-paper on which he had read “My hand trembles so as I write to you” —the contraction of her eyebrows when she said pleadingly: “You won’t leave it too long before getting in touch with me?”; he could smell the heated iron of the barber whom he used to have singe his hair while Loredan went to fetch the little seamstress; could feel the showers which fell so often that spring, the ice-cold homeward drive in his victoria, by moonlight; all the networks of mental habits, of seasonal impressions, of sensory reactions, which had extended over a series of weeks its uniform meshes in which his body found itself inextricably caught. At the time he had been satisfying a sensual curiosity in discovering the pleasures of those who live for love alone. He had supposed that he could stop there, that he would not be obliged to learn their sorrows also; yet how small a thing the actual charm of Odette was now in comparison with the fearsome terror which extended it like a cloudy halo all around her, the immense anguish of not knowing at every hour of the day and night what she had been doing, of not possessing her wholly, always and everywhere! Alas, he recalled the accents in which she had exclaimed: “But I can see you at any time; I’m always free!” —she who was never free now; he remembered the interest, the curiosity she had shown in his life, her passionate desire that he should do her the favour —which it was he who had dreaded at that time as a possibly tedious waste of his time and disturbance of his arrangements —of granting her access to his study; how she had been obliged to beg him to let her take him to the Verdurins’; and, when he allowed her to come to him once a month, how she had had to repeat to him time and again, before he let himself be swayed, what a joy it would be to see each other daily, a custom for which she longed when to him it seemed only a tiresome distraction, which she had then grown tired of and finally broken while for him it had become so irresistible and a painful a need.
- (via hoobinadona)
posted 4 weeks ago
But suddenly it was as though she had entered, and this apparition was so agonisingly painful that his hand clutched at his heart. The violin had risen to a series of high notes on which it rested as though awaiting something, holding on to them in a prolonged expectancy, in the exaltation of already seeing the object of its expectation approaching, and with a desperate effort to last out until its arrival, to welcome it before itself expiring, to keep the way open for a moment longer, with all its remaining strength, so that the stranger might pass, as one holds a door open that would otherwise automatically close. And before Swann had had time to understand what was happening and say to himself: It’s the little phrase from Vinteuil’s sonata — I mustn’t listen!”, all his memories of the days when Odette had been in love with him, which he had succeeded until that moment in keeping invisible in the depths of his being, deceived by this sudden reflection of a season of love whose sun, they supposed, had dawned again, had awakened from their slumber, had taken wing and risen to sing maddeningly in his ears, without pity for his present desolation, the forgotten strains of happiness.
- (via hoobinadona)
posted 4 weeks ago
When his eyes fell upon the photograph of Odette on his table, or when she came to see him, he had difficulty in identifying her face, either in the flesh or on the pasteboard, with the painful and continuous anxiety which dwelt in his mind. He could say to himself, almost with astonishment, ‘It’s she!’ as though suddenly we were to be shown in a detached, externalised form one of our own maladies, and we found it bore no resemblance to what we are suffering. ‘She’ — he tried to ask himself what that meant; for it is a point of resemblance between love and death, far more striking than those which are usually pointed out, that they make us probe deeper, in the fear that its reality may elude us, into the mystery of personality.

(via hoobinadona)

… for it is a point of resemblance between love and death, far more striking than those which are usually pointed out, that they make us probe deeper, in the fear that its reality may elude us, into the mystery of personality.

posted 4 weeks ago
But at the time of life, tinged already with disenchantment, which Swann was approaching, when a man can content himself with being in love for the pleasure of loving without expecting too much in return, this mutual sympathy, if it is no longer as in early youth the goal towards which love inevitably tends, is nevertheless bound to it by strong an association of ideas that it may well become the cause of love if it manifests itself first.
- (via hoobinadona)
posted 4 weeks ago
One felt that in her renunciation of life she had deliberately abandoned those places in which she might at least have been able to see the man she loved, for others where he had never trod. And I watched her, returning from some walk along a path she knew that he would not appear, drawing from her resigned hands long and uselessly elegant gloves.
- (via hoobinadona)
posted 4 weeks ago
Suddenly I stood still, unable to move, as happens when we are faced with a vision that appeals not to our eyes only but requires a deeper kind of perception and takes possession of the whole of our being.
- (via hoobinadona)
posted 4 weeks ago
It was like every attitude or action which reveals a man’s underlying character; they bear no relation to what he has previously said, and we cannot confirm our suspicions by the culprit’s own testimony, for he will admit nothing; we are reduced to the evidence of our own senses, and we ask ourselves, in the face of this detached and incoherent fragment of recollections, whether indeed our senses have not been the victims of a hallucination; with the result that such attitudes, which are alone of importance in indicating character, are the most apt to leave us in perplexity.
- (via hoobinadona)
posted 4 weeks ago
The bonds between ourselves and another person exists only in our minds. Memory as it grows fainter loosens them, and notwithstanding the illusion by which we want to be duped and which, out of love, friendship, politeness, deference, duty, we dupe other people, we exist alone. Man is the creature who cannot escape from himself, who knows other people only in himself, and when he asserts the contrary, he is lying.
- (via hoobinadona)
posted 4 weeks ago
posted 4 weeks ago
The real life of the party is flattened beneath the bed, taping actual sex encounters, not sitting cross-legged on the floor with a guitar, embarrassing himself and others.
- David Sedaris (via dancingundercover)
posted 1 month ago
It is sad because you would like to believe that everyone is unique and then they disappoint you every time by being exactly the same.
- David Sedaris, Barrel Fever (via fitzandthefool)
posted 1 month ago
posted 1 month ago
Cupola of Folds


It is the fold of 
Lint between the pockets
That you stand there toying with
As he stares at your hands
Mesmerized by your red hair
Then you reach beyond seeing
To tip on toes
And kiss him


It is the fold of flesh
That dimples
As you hear how badly he
Loved you
And you could not
Care less anymore
Because he only uses charm for
Strangers and sisters you once loved


It is the fold of the pillow
As it creases under you
For a poem to be born
And it is after 3am
You’re trying to flush the images
Out, and maybe God
Has given you this promise
To work, finally


It is the fold of memory
As you recall that first
Toy you broke on Christmas day
And your mother was crying in the kitchen
That she had lost
A diamond ring down
The sink 
It was still morning just yet


It is the fold of the Formica under
Her sharpened nails
As you first learned how
To use your tongue
And you find out that all
Eyes have whitened backs
And eyelashes are not for
Sand at all


It is the fold of company 
That lays drunk on
A Saturday night 
After you have heard 
The story of how his family 
Tore him from childhood 
Going back dozens 
Of smashed decades 


It is the fold of fascism
as you watch the wall come toppling
down from a grown man’s eyes
And you, his son
Who took his placard after his death
To prove he was once worthy
Of defense, love 
And warmth for something


It is the last fold of light
As he left me and the sun
Melted harmony into agony 
That he’ll never see
It again as either beautiful
Or plausible that
You could ever have 
Attended his wedding or his funeral


It is the fold of crisp
stamina as lungs whine for
Your father to rescue you
From your sick bed
He cannot, of course
And you’ve taken to
Holding back again, grappling small 
Hands along hospital walls


It is the fold of brutality
As you watch the raft go out
And New Orleans finally leaves you
You’re waving goodbye
As the freeway 
Blisters black faces
That  have made an entire
Culture possible; a place to thrive

posted 1 month ago