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"This may be the most well written book I have ever read. But I am lost in his anthropology and his study of the Haitian people. Not that into poetics. Upto the part about Hans Arp" — Jun 30, 2015 12:30PM
"This may be the most well written book I have ever read. But I am lost in his anthropology and his study of the Haitian people. Not that into poetics. Upto the part about Hans Arp" — Jun 30, 2015 12:30PM
Jaie Miller
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"I hope to pick up this book of short stories again sometime. Some gems." — Jun 30, 2015 12:28PM
"I hope to pick up this book of short stories again sometime. Some gems." — Jun 30, 2015 12:28PM
Ghosts are composed of neither smoke nor opaque or translucent fluid: they are as clear as air. We pass through them during the day, particularly during the day. Sometimes they are outlined in pen-strokes on our features, on one of our
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“I'm all these words, all these strangers, this dust of words, with no ground for their settling, no sky for their dispersing, coming together to say, fleeing one another to say, that I am they, all of them, those that merge, those that part, those that never meet, and nothing else, yes, something else, that I'm something quite different, a quite different thing, a wordless thing in an empty place, a hard shut dry cold black place, where nothing stirs, nothing speaks, and that I listen, and that I seek, like a caged beast born of caged beasts born of caged beasts born of caged beasts born in a cage and dead in a cage, born and then dead, born in a cage and then dead in a cage, in a word like a beast, in one of their words, like such a beast, and that I seek, like such a beast, with my little strength, such a beast, with nothing of its species left but fear and fury, no, the fury is past, nothing but fear, nothing of all its due but fear centupled, fear of its shadow, no, blind from birth, of sound then, if you like, we'll have that, one must have something, it's a pity, but there it is, fear of sound, fear of sounds, the sounds of beasts, the sounds of men, sounds in the daytime and sounds at night, that's enough, fear of sounds all sounds, more or less, more or less fear, all sounds, there's only one, continuous, day and night, what is it, it's steps coming and going, it's voices speaking for a moment, it's bodies groping their way, it's the air, it's things, it's the air among the things, that's enough, that I seek, like it, no, not like it, like me, in my own way, what am I saying, after my fashion, that I seek, what do I seek now, what it is, it must be that, it can only be that, what it is, what it can be, what what can be, what I seek, no, what I hear, I hear them, now it comes back to me, they say I seek what it is I hear, I hear them, now it comes back to me, what it can possibly be, and where it can possibly come from, since all is silent here, and the walls thick, and how I manage, without feeling an ear on me, or a head, or a body, or a soul, how I manage, to do what, how I manage, it's not clear, dear dear, you say it's not clear, something is wanting to make it clear, I'll seek, what is wanting, to make everything clear, I'm always seeking something, it's tiring in the end, and it's only the beginning.”
― The Unnamable
― The Unnamable
“It takes strength to remember, it takes another kind of strength to forget, it takes a hero to do both. People who remember court madness through pain, the pain of the perpetually recurring death of their innocence; people who forget court another kind of madness, the madness of the denial of pain and the hatred of innocence; and the world is mostly divided between madmen who remember and madmen who forget. Heroes are rare.”
― Giovanni’s Room
― Giovanni’s Room
“His sanity is an unknown room: a known room is always smaller than an unknown.”
― Nightwood
― Nightwood
“There’s only one woman left in the absence of thought that characterizes in pure black this cursed era.”
― Earthlight
― Earthlight
“Fleas dream of buying themselves a dog,
and nobodies dream of escaping poverty:
that one magical day good luck will
suddenly rain on them-will rain
down in buckets. But good luck doesn’t
rain down yesterday, today, tomorrow,
or ever. Good luck doesn’t even fall in a
fine drizzle, no matter how hard the
nobodies summon it, even if their left
hand is tickling, or if they begin the new
day with their right foot, or start the
new year with a change of brooms.
The nobodies: nobody’s children,
owners of nothing. The nobodies: the no
ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits,
dying trough life, screwed every which
way.
Who are not, but could be. Who don’t
speak languages, but dialects. Who don’t
have religions, but superstitions. Who
don’t create art, but handicrafts. Who
don’t have culture, but folklore. Who are
not human beings, but human resources.
Who do not have faces, but arms. Who
do not have names, but numbers. Who
do not appear in the history of the
world, but in the police blotter of the
local paper. The nobodies, who are not
worth the bullet that kills them.”
― The Book of Embraces
and nobodies dream of escaping poverty:
that one magical day good luck will
suddenly rain on them-will rain
down in buckets. But good luck doesn’t
rain down yesterday, today, tomorrow,
or ever. Good luck doesn’t even fall in a
fine drizzle, no matter how hard the
nobodies summon it, even if their left
hand is tickling, or if they begin the new
day with their right foot, or start the
new year with a change of brooms.
The nobodies: nobody’s children,
owners of nothing. The nobodies: the no
ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits,
dying trough life, screwed every which
way.
Who are not, but could be. Who don’t
speak languages, but dialects. Who don’t
have religions, but superstitions. Who
don’t create art, but handicrafts. Who
don’t have culture, but folklore. Who are
not human beings, but human resources.
Who do not have faces, but arms. Who
do not have names, but numbers. Who
do not appear in the history of the
world, but in the police blotter of the
local paper. The nobodies, who are not
worth the bullet that kills them.”
― The Book of Embraces
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