Then it’s time to dump this death water, to thoroughly rinse the sedated pieces under a running faucet, and to put them back into a clean pot filled with fresh water. It’s simply meat, simply food; all that was fearsome is gone. A calm blue flower of propane, just a little bit of heat. Let it simmer quietly; this is a five-to-six-hour undertaking.
Tag: quote
This girl, he liked her is the truth. He liked the way her hair rolled all the way down her back in big curls, like water over rocks. He watched her lock the car and hit the button twice, like she wasn’t sure she’d done it correctly. Everything about her seemed unsure and fragile, but she was open; that was what he sensed. He said, Hey, and she turned toward him without fear, despite everything—him, with the county wristband, filthy, soaked in sweat.
This girl, he liked her is the truth. He liked the way her hair rolled all the way down her back in big curls, like water over rocks. He watched her lock the car and hit the button twice, like she wasn’t sure she’d done it correctly. Everything about her seemed unsure and fragile, but she was open; that was what he sensed. He said, Hey, and she turned toward him without fear, despite everything—him, with the county wristband, filthy, soaked in sweat.
His analytical tendency, along with the huge hat collection that resulted from it, would obliterate him.
“The Philosophers” by Adam Ehrlich Sachs (2016)
His analytical tendency, along with the huge hat collection that resulted from it, would obliterate him.
“The Philosophers” by Adam Ehrlich Sachs (2016)
On the local radio show a man who won a Pulitzer prize in fiction explained that one must write every day because if a person does not write everyday a person forgets how to access the subconscious. If one did not write everyday then whenever a person comes back to writing she would have to learn to write from the beginning again. This has always been my plan. I would like to not know how to write, also to know no words. I believe this prize winning novelist believed that the mind had two places, the conscious and subconscious, and that literature could only come out of the subconscious mind, but that language preferred to live in the conscious one. This is wrong. Language prefers to live on the Internet.
from “the innocent question” by anne boyer in garments against women (via nogreatillusion)
On the local radio show a man who won a Pulitzer prize in fiction explained that one must write every day because if a person does not write everyday a person forgets how to access the subconscious. If one did not write everyday then whenever a person comes back to writing she would have to learn to write from the beginning again. This has always been my plan. I would like to not know how to write, also to know no words. I believe this prize winning novelist believed that the mind had two places, the conscious and subconscious, and that literature could only come out of the subconscious mind, but that language preferred to live in the conscious one. This is wrong. Language prefers to live on the Internet.
from “the innocent question” by anne boyer in garments against women (via nogreatillusion)
‘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
They were obviously giving a large party, exactly the kind that Marta dreamed of ever since she was a child. Heaven help her if she missed it. Down there opportunity was waiting for her, fate, romance, the true inauguration of her life. Would she arrive in time?
She spitefully noticed that another girl was falling about thirty meters above her. She was decidedly prettier than Marta and she wore a rather classy evening gown. For some unknown reason she came down much faster than Marta, so that in a few moments she passed by her and disappeared below, even though Marta was calling her. Without doubt she would get to the party before Marta; perhaps she had a plan all worked out to supplant her.
Then she realized that they weren’t alone. Along the sides of the skyscraper many other young women were plunging downward, their faces taut with the excitement of the flight, their hands cheerfully waving as if to say: look at us, here we are, entertain us, is not the world ours?
Dino Buzzati, “The Falling Girl” (viamerelyhumanbeing)
The focus of my fiction has often been young women. Most of my early stories featured them. There could be a number of reasons, from seeking to understand them for my own purposes to my protective nature forcing itself upon my creativity. Mostly, though, I want to see these young women get through an ordeal. I see so many of them corralled into spheres of anxiety and self-doubt that does nothing for them besides make their youth and their lives thereafter unnecessarily difficult.