How many who had been girls with us were no longer alive, had disappeared from the face of the earth because of illness, because their nervous systems had been unable to endure the sandpaper of torments, because their blood had been spilled.

—Elena Ferrante, Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay

“Spring adds, summer multiplies, autumn subtracts, winter divides.”

—@david_mitchell #BoneClocks

Cortázar book porn

Everybody understands now that sex isn’t really dirty. […] Well, it is dirty. And fantastically intimate. A kind of insanity.
—Jack Gilbert, talking to Gordon Lish

To someone who does not yet exist everything is, inevitably, a matter of complete indifference, just as it is for someone who has died. Both are nothing, neither possesses any consciousness, the former cannot even sense what its life will be and the latter cannot recall it, as if he or she had never had a life.

—Javier Marías

Inspiration is enigmatic. It involves a kind of receptiveness, for which ‘negative capability’, shamanic revelation, Dadaist games of chance and McCarthy’s echo chamber are a name, but also an answering desire to suspend reason or wilful deliberation: a willingness to admit an empowering spirit into the work, to render it productive. The artist must embrace dispossession, acknowledging the authority of a possessing voice, but it is also necessary to assume responsibility for the work, to shape and realise what has been received such that it might inspire others in turn.

—Lars Iyer

Saul Leiter
Now I am quietly waiting for    the catastrophe of my personality    to seem beautiful again,    and interesting, and modern.
—Frank O’Hara

Saul Leiter

Now I am quietly waiting for
    the catastrophe of my personality
    to seem beautiful again,
    and interesting, and modern.

—Frank O’Hara

#Orwell #1984

One after another they climbed up and occupied the top rail of the fence, hump-shouldered and grave, like a company of buzzards assembled for supper and listening for the death-rattle.

#MarkTwain #TheGildedAge

#NelsonAlgren, Division Street, 1952.

To disappear in that way, to enter a state of selflessness, is something I believe every musician, painter, actor, director and writer knows. It lies at the very base of creation.

—Karl Ove Knausgård @nytimes

Mornings with clouds. Windy mornings. Mornings with black wind rushing like water. The trees quiver, the windows are creaking like a ship. It’s going to rain.

—James Salter

#NormanMaclean teaching Shakespeare

#NormanMaclean teaching Shakespeare