Katia N
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(page 155 of 320)
"Thomas Vyre’s identity had been stolen. Some might have found this troubling; Vyre was happy about it. It hadn’t suited him anymore. He had long since grown weary of the man he had been, or, at least, the man that others had thought him. Anyone who wanted his identity was welcome to it. (His bank account less so; fortunately no one had tried a hit on that yet.)" — Apr 16, 2026 07:11AM
"Thomas Vyre’s identity had been stolen. Some might have found this troubling; Vyre was happy about it. It hadn’t suited him anymore. He had long since grown weary of the man he had been, or, at least, the man that others had thought him. Anyone who wanted his identity was welcome to it. (His bank account less so; fortunately no one had tried a hit on that yet.)" — Apr 16, 2026 07:11AM
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(page 667 of 742)
"I think every writer is a born actor. In first place, the writer takes on the role of themselves and really inhabits the part. A writer is someone who tires easily, and ends up feeling slightly bored with herself, since her intimate contact with herself is, of necessity, too prolonged." — Apr 02, 2026 01:20PM
"I think every writer is a born actor. In first place, the writer takes on the role of themselves and really inhabits the part. A writer is someone who tires easily, and ends up feeling slightly bored with herself, since her intimate contact with herself is, of necessity, too prolonged." — Apr 02, 2026 01:20PM
“Le vrai pessimiste sait qu'il est déjà trop tard pour l'être.”
― L'Anomalie
― L'Anomalie
“We acquired things and used them and disposed of them. What we liked best was disposing of them. It felt like disposing the bad and burdensome parts of ourselves. It felt momentarily, like disposing of our own bodies. Sometimes we sensed that we were living counter to nature, were at odds with it, and this manifested itself as intolerable feeling of material chaos and disorder, to which a material solution could usually be found.”
― Parade
― Parade
“What Beckett is dramatising here is a quite different view of the notion that man is the storytelling animal. What he is showing is that we may indeed have an innate capacity to tell stories, but that far from this being the royal road to truth it is simply a way of avoiding the truth, of avoiding the sense that something nameless is taking its course, that our lives are passing us by, that we are moving inexorably towards a death we do not understand or want and certainly do not know how to cope with.
But what does that do to the feeling that something nameless is taking its course, something that needs to be dealt with that otherwise will drive him mad? This, it seems to me, is the paradox that lies at the heart of all modern art: the need to speak of that which cannot be uttered, together with the recognition that the utterance perverts or destroys the thing that needed to be spoken of.”
― The Teller and the Tale: Essays on Literature and Culture
But what does that do to the feeling that something nameless is taking its course, something that needs to be dealt with that otherwise will drive him mad? This, it seems to me, is the paradox that lies at the heart of all modern art: the need to speak of that which cannot be uttered, together with the recognition that the utterance perverts or destroys the thing that needed to be spoken of.”
― The Teller and the Tale: Essays on Literature and Culture
“We so often think of the past as a something like a nature reserve: a discrete, bounded place we can visit in our imaginations to make us feel better. I wonder how we could learn to recognise that the past is always working on us and through us, and that diversity in all its forms, human and natural, is strength.”
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“a situation developed that had no clear beginning or end. It emerged and flowered and receded again over a day or a handful of days. He was old enough now to know that these situations, these flowering, which in youth seem almost identical to the forward-driving story of life, in fact turn out to be life itself. It was in these moments of hope and expectation and disillusion, of prelude, before the will decides to conscript the self into conformity, that they really lived.”
― Parade
― Parade
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