Status Updates From Yesterday, at the Hotel Cla...

How else can one express the essential things that run through our relationship to time and continuity, our little lonesome-beast murmurings as we roam the cosmos?

We’re unaware of the extent to which pain, or, rather, the will to avoid suffering, dictates our choices, our opinions, commands our decisions.

Yesterday, Carla called me a passionate reader without knowing a thing about my reading habits. I think she meant I’m a passionate person and the word reader escaped her like a glass slips out of a hand. It’s true that reading is part of my life, that it brings me pleasure, but at the same time it burns me. From the inside. As if, encountering my nostalgia, it ignites an unbearable elation in me.

[...] only the remains of the past could ignite in her a vertiginous sense of being alive in the present.

Words ignite me.

A book list to die for. (Complete with name the author quiz)

You see, I need books in order to come and go in the complex beauty of the world.

There's nothing more fascinating than observing human beings. If, in addition, you're able to describe their most intimate gestures, you have the obligation, it seems to me, to respond to that call inside us to be curious about our own kind, be it only to act as a mirror or to foil a sense of hyper-vulnerability.

What is the present if part of our life consists of imagining ourselves everywhere, in the past or tomorrow? I don 't know if the present or necessity is how I should name the way we braid our days together so as to allow a vertical escape, either downward with a strong taste of debauchery in our mouths, or upward, an old idea of transcendence ready to torch everything in its path.

Words are grandiose muscles. In social situations, Axelle claims she enjoys reading. She never says that it allows her to stock up on puns that help time go by when she feels like dying.

Only the remains of the past could ignite in her a vertiginous sense of being alive in the present.

The winding and rewinding of time. The explosive interiority written in the particularity of A.S. Byatt. Ah, the sweet immersion of reading.

You see, I need books in order to come and go in the complex beauty of the world.