Steve Middendorf

“Things separate from their stories have no meaning.”
― Cormac McCarthy, The Crossing

“I light a cigarette to put off the journey till later / To put off all journeys till later / To put off the entire universe till later.” The entire universe is in a bookcase, no need to go out: what’s the point of leaving the Tower, said Hölderlin, the end of the world has already taken place, no reason to go experience it yourself; you linger, your fingernail between two pages (so soft, so creamy) where Álvaro de Campos, the engineer dandy, becomes more real than Pessoa, his flesh-and-blood double. Great are the deserts and everything is desert.”
― Mathias Énard, Compass

“All these torments which the fish undergoes during the period of love are called “migration to death” in Russian, because they inevitably lead to death, and not a single one of the fish ever returns to the ocean – they all die in the rivers. “Irresistible bouts of erotic attraction leading to one’s demise,” says Middendorf.”
― Anton Chekhov, Sakhalin Island

“Who has the rights to the story of a place? Are these rights earned, bought, fought and died for? Or are they given? Are they automatic, like an assumption? Self-renewing? Are these rights a token of citizenship belonging to those who stay in the place or to those who leave and come back to it? Does the act of leaving relinquish one’s rights to the story of a place? Who stays gone? Who can afford to return?”
― Sarah M. Broom, The Yellow House