Nayra Alexandre

“I read a lot. I listen a lot. I think a lot. But so little remains. The books I read, their plots, their protagonists fade. The university lectures that I had found pretty impressive on first hearing, have faded away. Now I am listening to one on Pirandello. Names of people, books, cities. They are already fading away. Even the titles of films I’ve seen recently — they have already faded. Authors of thousands of books I’ve read... All that remains are the colours of their bindings, their covers. I don’t remember much about Beauty and the Beast, but I remember clearly, vividly the hear of the day as we were crossing the Rhine bridge, to see the film. Everything that I see, or red, or listen to, connects, translates into moods, bits of surroundings, colors. No, I am not a novelist. No precision of observation, detail. With me, everything is mood, mood, or else —simply nothingness.”
― Jonas Mekas, I Had Nowhere to Go

“I go for a long night walk, in order to get out of the factory day.
I walk and i wander through the network of the streets, neon lights and night crowds.
This woman on the corner, she was shouting at me: ''Ay, why are you so sad?''
Lady of the night, you haven't see me really sad.
Right now i am in my happiest mood.
I continue walking. How could she really understand the depths of my sadness.”
― Jonas Mekas, I Had Nowhere to Go

“Some women fight and others do not. Like so many successful guerrillas in the war between the sexes, Georgia O’Keeffe seems to have been equipped early with an immutable sense of who she was and a fairly clear understanding that she would be required to prove”
― Joan Didion, The White Album: Essays

“This must be the 26th February 23rd I have
lived through: over a quarter of a century of Februaries, and would I could
cut a slice of recollection back through them all & trace the spiraling stair
of my ascent adultward - or is it a descent? I feel I have lived enough to last
my life in musings, tracings of crossings & re-crossings with people, mad
and sane, stupid and brilliant, beautiful and grotesque, infant and antique,
cold and hot, pragmatic and dream-ridden, dead and alive. My house of
days and masks is rich enough so that I might and must spend years fishing,
hauling up the pearl-eyed, horny, scaled and sea-bearded monsters sunk
long, long in the sargasso of my imagination”
― Sylvia Plath, The Journals of Sylvia Plath