Isidora Markovic

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Grief Is the Thin...
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Pilgram at Tinker...
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See all 6 books that Isidora is reading…
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Italo Calvino
“His memory, if he could patiently reconstruct the hours he passed, second by second, promised him boundless Edens.”
Italo Calvino, Difficult Loves

Roland Barthes
“By weeping, I want to impress someone, to bring pressure to bear upon someone...I make myself cry in order to prove to myself that my grief is not an illusion; tears are signs, not expressions. By my tears, I tell a story, I produce a myth of grief, and henceforth I adjust myself to it: I can live with it, because, by weeping, I give myself an emphatic interlocutor who receives the *truest* of messages, that of my body, not that of my speech: *Words, what are they? One tear will say more than all of them*”
Roland Barthes, A Lover's Discourse: Fragments

Zygmunt Bauman
“Consuming life cannot be other than a life of rapid learning, but it also needs to be a life of swift forgetting.”
Zygmunt Bauman, Consuming Life

Roland Barthes
“I'm cold," the lover says, "let's go back," but there is no road, no way, the boat is wrecked.”
Roland Barthes, A Lover's Discourse: Fragments

Georges Perec
“I would like there to exist spaces that are stable, unmoving, intangible, untouched and almost untouchable, unchanging, deep-rooted; places that might be points of reference, of departure, of origin:

My birthpalce, the cradle of my family, the house where I may have been born, the tree I may have seen grow (that my father may have planted the day I was born), the attic of my childhood filled with intact memories . . .

Such places don't exist, and it's because they do'nt exist that space becomes a question, ceases to be self-evident, ceases to be incorporated, ceases to be appropriated. Space is a doubt: I have constantly to mark it, to designate it, It is never mine, never given to me, I have to conquer it.

My spaces are fragile: time is going to wear them away, to destroy them. Nothing will any longer reseble waht was, my memories will betray me, oblivion will infiltrate my memory, I shall look at a few old yellowing photographs with broken edges without recognising them. The words 'Phone directory available within' or 'Snacks served at any hour' will no longer be written up in a semi-circle in white porcelain letter on the window of the little café in the Rue Coquillière.

Space melts like sand running through one's fingers. Time bears it away and leaves me only Shapeless shreds:

To write: to try meticulously to retain something, to cause something to survive; to wrest a few precise scraps from the void as it grows, to leave somewhere a furrow, a trace, a mark or a few signs.

Paris 1973-1974”
Georges Perec, Species of Spaces and Other Pieces

year in books
Pavle
760 books | 435 friends

Anna
123 books | 139 friends

Bojana
522 books | 345 friends

Ana Simona
190 books | 12 friends

I. Ivanoff
1,310 books | 522 friends

ск
1,099 books | 124 friends

Anela R...
291 books | 21 friends

Lola
213 books | 129 friends

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