Sohayla

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Nora Ephron
“Reading is escape, and the opposite of escape; it's a way to make contact with reality after a day of making things up, and it's a way of making contact with someone else's imagination after a day that's all too real.”
Nora Ephron

Guy de Maupassant
“Words dazzle and deceive because they are mimed by the face. But black words on a white page are the soul laid bare.”
Guy de Maupassant

Amy Tan
“Writing what you wished was the most dangerous form of wishful thinking.”
Amy Tan, The Bonesetter's Daughter

Edgar Allan Poe
“Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.”
Edgar Allan Poe, Eleonora

Luke Davies
“Once upon a time, there was Candy and Dan. Things were very hot that year. All the wax was melting in the trees. He would climb balconies, climb everywhere, do anything for her, oh Danny boy. Thousands of birds, the tiniest birds, adorned her hair. Everything was gold. One night the bed caught fire. He was handsome and a very good criminal. We lived on sunlight and chocolate bars. It was the afternoon of extravagant delight. Danny the daredevil. Candy went missing. The days last rays of sunshine cruise like sharks. I want to try it your way this time. You came into my life really fast and I liked it. We squelched in the mud of our joy. I was wet-thighed with surrender. Then there was a gap in things and the whole earth tilted. This is the business. This, is what we're after. With you inside me comes the hatch of death. And perhaps I'll simply never sleep again. The monster in the pool. We are a proper family now with cats and chickens and runner beans. Everywhere I looked. And sometimes I hate you. Friday -- I didn't mean that, mother of the blueness. Angel of the storm. Remember me in my opaqueness. You pointed at the sky, that one called Sirius or dog star, but on here on earth. Fly away sun. Ha ha fucking ha you are so funny Dan. A vase of flowers by the bed. My bare blue knees at dawn. These ruffled sheets and you are gone and I am going to. I broke your head on the back of the bed but the baby he died in the morning. I gave him a name. His name was Thomas. Poor little god. His heart pounds like a voodoo drum.”
Luke Davies, Candy

89114 Existentialist Fiction — 330 members — last activity Nov 26, 2017 02:29PM
Existentialist fiction is rarely referred to as reality. And sometimes reality is misgiven. And then we seek for meaning, if not for purpose in words ...more
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