In their final interview, Maria Gostrey wonders who or what made Lambert Strether the way he is. When she was at school in Geneva, she knew a boy who was fucked by a priest every Sunday morning. The sad set of his shoulders reminds her of Strether’s stoop. She imagines a world where it would be possible to un-fuck: not just to pull the cocks out of the cunts and the anuses and the mouths, not just to remove the tongues from the cocks and the anuses and the cunts, but to restore a person, by an act of love, to what he was like before he was ever fucked. To undo fucking with a gesture, with a word—with a silence. Like restoring antiques, it would be a kind of fraud, but as with antiques people might not mind the deception. If only we could believe that such a thing was possible! she thinks to herself, on the verge now of tears.
Tag: lit quotes
In their final interview, Maria Gostrey wonders who or what made Lambert Strether the way he is. When she was at school in Geneva, she knew a boy who was fucked by a priest every Sunday morning. The sad set of his shoulders reminds her of Strether’s stoop. She imagines a world where it would be possible to un-fuck: not just to pull the cocks out of the cunts and the anuses and the mouths, not just to remove the tongues from the cocks and the anuses and the cunts, but to restore a person, by an act of love, to what he was like before he was ever fucked. To undo fucking with a gesture, with a word—with a silence. Like restoring antiques, it would be a kind of fraud, but as with antiques people might not mind the deception. If only we could believe that such a thing was possible! she thinks to herself, on the verge now of tears.
I win a whole day to watch clouds pile past the mountain and contemplate the fact that I am an illusion. There is no self, the classical masters are firm on this. No Ahab. No Starbuck. No whale?
Plainwater by Anne Carson
I win a whole day to watch clouds pile past the mountain and contemplate the fact that I am an illusion. There is no self, the classical masters are firm on this. No Ahab. No Starbuck. No whale?
Plainwater by Anne Carson
If someone asks me, ‘Why do you write?’ I can reply by pointing out that it is a very dumb question. Nevertheless, there is an answer. I write because I hate. A lot. Hard.
William Gass, The Paris Review
If someone asks me, ‘Why do you write?’ I can reply by pointing out that it is a very dumb question. Nevertheless, there is an answer. I write because I hate. A lot. Hard.
William Gass, The Paris Review
Six feet tall and arms like bundled wire. He go strutting the length of the house. Bottle cap pried up with his long bad teeth, spitting tin and blood in the trashcan and turning to put that sweet mouth on me, saying, Heart, come closer. Come here. Loving in your wolfish, in your wicked.
I’ve known you and known you and known you. For always all cramped up in your bedroom like little. See this: this marks the sixteenth August what you told me it’s too toxic to go outside.
“How I Gonna Bare My Neck Outside in the Sweat-Scared Morning” by Delaney Nolan
(Hobart 14 contributor / Buffalo Prize winner, Delaney Nolan!)
Six feet tall and arms like bundled wire. He go strutting the length of the house. Bottle cap pried up with his long bad teeth, spitting tin and blood in the trashcan and turning to put that sweet mouth on me, saying, Heart, come closer. Come here. Loving in your wolfish, in your wicked.
I’ve known you and known you and known you. For always all cramped up in your bedroom like little. See this: this marks the sixteenth August what you told me it’s too toxic to go outside.
“How I Gonna Bare My Neck Outside in the Sweat-Scared Morning” by Delaney Nolan
(Hobart 14 contributor / Buffalo Prize winner, Delaney Nolan!)
‘And what about you?’ Rateau said. ‘Do you exist? You never say anything bad about anyone.’ Jonas began to laugh. ‘Oh! I often think bad of them. But then I forget.’ He became serious. ‘No, I’m not sure of existing. But someday I’ll exist, I’m sure.’
“The Artist at Work” by Albert Camus
‘And what about you?’ Rateau said. ‘Do you exist? You never say anything bad about anyone.’ Jonas began to laugh. ‘Oh! I often think bad of them. But then I forget.’ He became serious. ‘No, I’m not sure of existing. But someday I’ll exist, I’m sure.’
“The Artist at Work” by Albert Camus