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Jes
https://www.goodreads.com/commedesgascon
“Think of that person you knew when you were a kid, who you always thought you could have loved completely and forever.Well, you could have. It’s the truth, and it’s the saddest and simplest thing. There isn’t just one person for each of us in the world. There aren’t many, but there are always a few people we could have made it with, that maybe we still want to make it with, that press themselves so close to our hearts they leave scars, and then slip through our fingers and disappear from our lives. And it doesn’t make a difference if you’re thirteen or ninety- eight because some things you feel are real, no matter when.”
― Flick
― Flick
“Suddenly I like him. Cristina can't take her eyes away. She asks when he was born, and it turns out he's a Sagittarius which is a very good sign.
'Really?'
'It's one of the best for me,' she says. 'Scorpio is the worst.”
― A Sport and a Pastime
'Really?'
'It's one of the best for me,' she says. 'Scorpio is the worst.”
― A Sport and a Pastime
“Someone described a writer's world as tormented, and I had to laugh. A tormented writer? I personally wouldn't have put those two words together.
Emotions have the power to torment a soul, yes, I agree to that. But writers, through the formation of our characters, delve so often into the depths of a vast range of emotions that we earn the advantage. For we've examined every little thrumming, fracture, spark, pang, and darkening of the heart to a point that we understand and appreciate the necessity and strength of emotions as well as the cause and effects manipulating them.
We understand.
We can imagine.
We sympathize.
Our knowledge is power over the torment of emotional ignorance.
I would suggest that those truly tormented are the readers of our works because those poor souls shall never know with such clarity and sentiment all the tiny little details that make our characters breath, move, and live before our very eyes.
Perhaps, if torment does lurk among writers, it comes simply through knowing more about an imagined friend than can ever be adequately expressed in words.”
―
Emotions have the power to torment a soul, yes, I agree to that. But writers, through the formation of our characters, delve so often into the depths of a vast range of emotions that we earn the advantage. For we've examined every little thrumming, fracture, spark, pang, and darkening of the heart to a point that we understand and appreciate the necessity and strength of emotions as well as the cause and effects manipulating them.
We understand.
We can imagine.
We sympathize.
Our knowledge is power over the torment of emotional ignorance.
I would suggest that those truly tormented are the readers of our works because those poor souls shall never know with such clarity and sentiment all the tiny little details that make our characters breath, move, and live before our very eyes.
Perhaps, if torment does lurk among writers, it comes simply through knowing more about an imagined friend than can ever be adequately expressed in words.”
―
“Women can go mad with insomnia.
The sleep-deprived roam houses that have lost their familiarity. With tea mugs in hand, we wander rooms, looking on shelves for something we will recognize: a book title, a photograph, the teak-carved bird -- a souvenir from what place? A memory almost rises when our eyes rest on a painting's grey sweep of cloud, or the curve of a wooden leg in a corner. Fingertips faintly recall the raised pattern on a chair cushion, but we wonder how these things have come to be here, in this stranger's home.
Lost women drift in places where time has collapsed. We look into our thoughts and hearts for what has been forgotten, for what has gone missing. What did we once care about? Whom did we love? We are emptied. We are remote. Like night lilies, we open in the dark, breathe in the shadowy world. Our soliloquies are heard by no one.”
― Lost: A Memoir
The sleep-deprived roam houses that have lost their familiarity. With tea mugs in hand, we wander rooms, looking on shelves for something we will recognize: a book title, a photograph, the teak-carved bird -- a souvenir from what place? A memory almost rises when our eyes rest on a painting's grey sweep of cloud, or the curve of a wooden leg in a corner. Fingertips faintly recall the raised pattern on a chair cushion, but we wonder how these things have come to be here, in this stranger's home.
Lost women drift in places where time has collapsed. We look into our thoughts and hearts for what has been forgotten, for what has gone missing. What did we once care about? Whom did we love? We are emptied. We are remote. Like night lilies, we open in the dark, breathe in the shadowy world. Our soliloquies are heard by no one.”
― Lost: A Memoir
“Me"
( Notice Me)
I was sent here on a journey that has no end.
I hear you joke of going nowhere fast.
Well, maybe life’s a joke and I’m the fool
That dreams of being first but ends up last.
Life’s a trial—a sentence I can’t escape.
Confusion and desperation tear me down and turn to hate.
There’s so much more to figure out,
But it’s growing way too late.
If I could answer half the questions in my mind,
If I could find the place where I belong,
If words were near as strong and deep as the wall of emotions I climb
Then sorrow wouldn’t be so wrong.
There’s no way to make you understand.
An entire symphony could not play the broken notes in one child’s soul.
That child screams and no one hears her,
Until the tears have dried and now she’s just too old.
I don’t want to hear the philosophies, the opinions,
The remarks, the horrible reasonings.
Words are to pad the mind and fight with the solitude of the heart.
Still, silence chills to the bone and tears the soul apart.
She never means to hurt or harm, only to belong.
To find the truth ‘mid mortal lies, to sing her only song.
But someday this race will end, and if she comes in last,
I pray the first will look deeper than the others, smile, and then pass.
"Copyright 1985”
―
( Notice Me)
I was sent here on a journey that has no end.
I hear you joke of going nowhere fast.
Well, maybe life’s a joke and I’m the fool
That dreams of being first but ends up last.
Life’s a trial—a sentence I can’t escape.
Confusion and desperation tear me down and turn to hate.
There’s so much more to figure out,
But it’s growing way too late.
If I could answer half the questions in my mind,
If I could find the place where I belong,
If words were near as strong and deep as the wall of emotions I climb
Then sorrow wouldn’t be so wrong.
There’s no way to make you understand.
An entire symphony could not play the broken notes in one child’s soul.
That child screams and no one hears her,
Until the tears have dried and now she’s just too old.
I don’t want to hear the philosophies, the opinions,
The remarks, the horrible reasonings.
Words are to pad the mind and fight with the solitude of the heart.
Still, silence chills to the bone and tears the soul apart.
She never means to hurt or harm, only to belong.
To find the truth ‘mid mortal lies, to sing her only song.
But someday this race will end, and if she comes in last,
I pray the first will look deeper than the others, smile, and then pass.
"Copyright 1985”
―
Jes’s 2025 Year in Books
Take a look at Jes’s Year in Books, including some fun facts about their reading.
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