Gregory > Recent Status Updates

The blurb references Lispector, Pessoa, Hist and yes please go on.

The psyche is quite a tenuous object of study.

We never, I think, discovered the true nature of the things we saw, any more than we were ever in danger of being affected by them; we peered at them, at people and places, like people on a ship peer at the passing mainland, and should we have seen them in any kind of trouble, or they us, there would have been nothing whatever either one of us could have done about it.

“Sometimes it has seemed to me that life is a series of punishments for such moments of unawareness, that one forges one’s own destiny by what one doesn’t notice or feel compassion for; that what you don’t know and don’t make the effort to understand will become the very thing you are forced into knowledge of.”

“Sometimes it has seemed to me that life is a series of punishments for such moments of unawareness, that one forges one’s own destiny by what one doesn’t notice or feel compassion for; that what you don’t know and don’t make the effort to understand will become the very thing you are forced into knowledge of.”

And of those two ways of living - living in the moment and living outside of it - which was the more real?

This book is not made for the weary and polluted brain; but I carry on and will complete it shortly.

I’m too tired to keep on with Lispector’s rapid fire instants and is-isms today; rapt as they are and aren’t.

Or else:
The same, replacing, et cetera.

“The latter believe that only counterfeiting, mystification, intentional falsehood can represent absolute value in a book, a truth not contaminated by the dominant pseudo truths.”

Life is nothing but trading smells.

...More than anything, I’m afraid to say it, because the moment I try to speak not only do I fail to express why I feel but what I feel slowly comes what I say.”

“My consciousness strays, but it doesn’t matter, I find the greatest serenity in hallucination. It is curious I can’t who I am. That is to say, I know it all too well, but I can’t say it...

“...he was jiggled as he wept.”

Completed the ‘Book’ part of the book; incompleted as Soares would have it. On to the Anthology next? Or to dip in and out?

Meagre pages, unrelenting lack of concentration tonight - yet —

“Sheets of frosted glass always stood between me and life.”

“... nor do I know whether the sound of a discordant word or the rhythm of an incidental phrase might not be diverting me from the already hazy point, from the already stowed sensation, thereby absolving me from thinking and saying, like long voyages designed to distract us.”

“Beset by lucid and free associations of ideas, images and words, I say what I imagine I‘m feeling as much as what I’m really feeling, and I’m unable to distinguish between the suggestions of my soul and the fruits born of images that fell from my soul to the ground...”

“Why is art beautiful? Because it’s useless. Why is life ugly? Because it’s all aims, objectives and intentions.”

“The love of absurdity and paradox is the animal happiness of the sad... those incapable of joy and enthusiasm do somersaults in their minds and perform, in their own cold way, the warm gestures of life.”

Getting into the chunky bit.

Getting into the chunky bit.