Odette Carotte

Reading the Penguin Proust in English, like a glutton

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Have you ever thought about time? I mean sat down on a chair somewhere and gave it all your attention. Not space. Not space-time either. I don’t mean space-time at all. Fuck space-time. I mean just time, all by itself. Just try it some day. Find a comfortable chair, bring along cigarettes, matches, an ashtray, clear your head, relieve your bladder, and think about time. How long it is.
Aidan Higgins, Balcony of Europe (via under-the-volcano)

338 notes

There is a kind of voracious reading that happens between the ages of seven and 17 that I thought was reserved only for, well, children. Sometimes I wonder if all my reading since has been a secret attempt to get close to that experience of sustained absorption.
adapted from Jane Hu + (via silentseasnarrowstreets)

(via mythologyofblue)

1 note

You have no idea how much Belle Époque softcore I encounter on a daily basis.

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Ah yes, sweet little song, how much you mock me,
for even if I go o’er hill, I won’t bloom as a rose.
Only a rose blooms as a rose, no one else. That’s for sure.

I tried to put out leaves, to turn into a bush.
Holding my breath so it would happen faster.
I waited for the moment of budding as a rose.

O sweet little song, you show no mercy toward me:
I have a body that’s unique, immutable,
I’m here but once to the marrow of my bones.

—Wislawa Szymborska, translated by Magnus J. Krynski and Robert A. Maguire, from “Calling Out to Yeti,” 1957

Filed under Szymborska polish poetry shame of being existence rose song immutable happening