Sometimes, when I get a little drunk, I can remember even more about how beautiful everything was, but then, when I’m sober again, I forget.
“Five Arrows” by Heinz Insu Fenkl
Tag: literature
Sometimes, when I get a little drunk, I can remember even more about how beautiful everything was, but then, when I’m sober again, I forget.
“Five Arrows” by Heinz Insu Fenkl
White light was floating everywhere like flour dust, and the beautiful woman climbed up on the bed, on top of me, and, right in front of her servants, she took off her clothes and pushed herself down onto me. I thought my penis would burst, but she was slightly cold, not like a Korean woman.
“Five Arrows” by Heinz Insu Fenkl
White light was floating everywhere like flour dust, and the beautiful woman climbed up on the bed, on top of me, and, right in front of her servants, she took off her clothes and pushed herself down onto me. I thought my penis would burst, but she was slightly cold, not like a Korean woman.
“Five Arrows” by Heinz Insu Fenkl
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.
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