Status Updates From Las olas

It was Neville who changed our time. He, who has been thinking with the unlimited time of the mind, which stretches in a flash from Shakespeare to ourselves, poked the fire and began to live by that other clock which marks the approach of a particular person. The wide and dignified sweep of his mind contracted.

Going up to bed we settled our quarrel on the stairs, and standing by the window looking at a sky clear like the inside of a blue stone, "Heaven be praised," I said, "we need not whip this prose into poetry. The little language is enough."

I rose and walked away - I, I, I; not Byron, Shelley, Dostoevsky, but I, Bernard. I even repeated my own name once or twice. I went ... into a shop, and bought - not that I love music - a picture of Beethoven in a silver frame. Not that I love music, but because the whole of life, it's masters, it's adventurers, then appeared in long ranks of magnificent human beings behind me; and I was their inheritor...

et puis je m’ennuie quoi

"'It is strange that we, who are capable of so much suffering, should inflict so much suffering."

"Now there is nothing. No fin breaks the waste of this immeasurable sea. Life has destroyed me. No echo comes when I speak, no varied words. This is more truly death than the death of friends, than the death of youth."

"Should this be the end of the story? a kind of sigh? a last ripple of the wave? A trickle of water in some gutter where, burbling, it dies away?"