When nobody will look at you, you can stare a hole in them. Picking out all the little details you'd never stare long enough to get if she'd ever just return your gaze, this, this is your revenge.
Sunday, February 19, 2017
Invisible Monsters - Pg 24
Invisible Monsters - Pg 24
Those blue eyes you never see close or look away, inside those eyes is the baby or the bouquet of flowers, beautiful or vulnerable, that make a beautiful man someone safe to love.
Invisible Monsters - Pg 22
No matter how careful you are, there's going to be the sense you missed something, the collapsed feeling under your skin that you didn't experience it all. There's that fallen heart feeling that you rushed right through the moments where you should've been paying attention.
Well, get used to that feeling. That's how your whole life will feel one day.
This is all practice. None of this matters. We're just warming up.
Invisible Monsters - Pg 15
It's funny, but when you think about even the biggest tragic fire it's just a sustained chemical reaction. The oxidation of Joan of Arc.
Invisible Monsters - Pg 13
Him yelling, Give me lust, baby.
Flash.
Give me malice.
Flash.
Give me detached existentialist ennui.
Flash.
Give me rampant intellectualism as a coping mechanism.
Thursday, June 9, 2016
Mourning Diary - Pg 233
Each time I dream about her (and I dream only of her), it is in order to see her, believe her to be alive, but other, separate.
Mourning Diary - Pg 226
Maman's photo as a little girl, in the distance—in front of me on my desk. It was enough for me to look at it, to apprehend the suchness of her being (which I struggle to describe) in order to be reinvested by, immersed in, invaded, inundated by her goodness.
Mourning Diary - Pg 206
The day of the anniversary of maman's death is approaching. I fear, increasingly, as if on this day (October 25) she will have to die a second time.
Mourning Diary - Pg 183
"Beauty is not like a superlative of what we imagine, a sort of abstract type we have before our eyes, but on the contrary a new, unimaginable type that reality affords us."
[Similarly: my suffering is not like the superlative of pain, of abandonment, etc., a sort of abstract type (which could be recovered by metalanguage), but on the contrary a new type, etc.]
Mourning Diary - Pg 181
Exploration of my (apparently vital) need of solitude: and yet I have a (no less vital) need of my friends.
I must therefore: 1) force myself to "call" them from time to time, find the energy to do so, combat my—telephonic (among other kinds)—apathy; 2) ask them to understand that above all they must let me call them. If they less often, less systematically, got in touch with me, that would mean for me that I must get in touch with them.
Mourning Diary - Pg 177
Which is what literature is: that I cannot read without pain, without choking on truth.
Mourning Diary - Pg 175
The very fact that language affords me the word "intolerable" immediately achieves a certain tolerance.
Mourning Diary - Pg 173
I live in my suffering and that makes me happy.
Anything that keeps me from living in my suffering is unbearable to me.
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