shadesofpaint > Recent Status Updates

I’m afraid of what will be born and take possession of me, and drag me WHERE? Shall I have to go off again, leaving my research my book my everything else unfinished? Shall I awake in a few months, in a few years, broken, deceived, in the midst or new ruins? I would like to see the truth clearly before it is too late

My passion was dead, for years it had rolled over and submerged me, now I felt empty

“This scent was inconceivable, indescribable, could not be categorized in any way-it really ought not to exist at all. And yet there it was as plain and splendid
as day”

“ This scent was a blend of both, of evanescence and substance, not a blend, but a unity, although slight and frail as well, and yet solid and sustaining, like a piece of thin, shimmering silk, and yet again not like silk, but like pastry soaked in honeysweet milk-and try as he would he couldn’t fit those two together: milk and silk”

" This scent had a freshness, but not the freshness of limes or pomegranates, not the freshness of myrrh or cinnamon bark or curly mint or birch or camphor or pine needles, nor that of a May rain or a frosty wind or of well water… and at the same time it had warmth, but not as bergamot, cypress, or musk has, or jasmine or daffodils, not as rosewood has or iris… “

“ The odor came rolling down the rue de Seine like a ribbon, unmistakably clear, and yet as before very delicate and very fine. Grenouille felt his heart pounding, and he knew that it was not the exertion of running
that had set it pounding, but rather his excited helplessness in the presence of this scent. He tried to
recall something comparable, but had to discard all comparisons”

None of us can ever retrieve that innocence before all theory when art knew no need to justify itself, when one did not ask of a work of art what it said because one knew (or thought one knew) what it did.

Oh, how I hate the old woman now! I feel I should kill her again if she came to life!

I don’t want to wait for ‘the happiness of all.’ I want to live myself, or else better not live at all.

I didn’t kill a human being, I killed a principle.

‘You are certainly logical. But what of his conscience?’

‘Why do you care about that?’

‘Simply from humanity.’

‘If he has a conscience he will suffer for his mistake. That will be his punishment as well as the prison.’

Vive la guerre éternelle, till the New Jerusalem, of course!!

Bro wrote an article about it💀 he studied the torment, the fear, the moral unraveling of a criminal mind, and then voluntarily stepped into it, turning theory into lived chaos

How dosto amazes me everytime he describe the way thoughts swirl inside one’s mind is smth i’ll never get over, such astonishing clarity and brilliance

Maybe I found a treasure somewhere and you know nothing of it? So that’s why I was liberal yesterday…

Razumikhin is like that friend or family member who can’t help but overshare things about you at gatherings, and even when you try to drop hints, they just don’t get it

“Suddenly, I woke from a six year slumber” kinda awakening that feels nauseating instead of liberating

A crowd of small metamorphoses accumulate in me without my noticing it, and then, one fine day, a veritable revolution takes place, this is what has given my life such a jerky incoherent aspect..

I think I’m the one who has changed, that’s the simplest solution, also the most unpleasant, but I must finally realize

in a way I was calm. But it was a horrible calm, because of my body; my body, I saw with its eyes, I heard with its ears, but it was no longer me;

It was enough for me to look at the bench, the lamp, the pile of coal dust, to feel that I was going to die. Naturally I couldn't think clearly about my death but I saw it everywhere, on things, in the way things fell back and kept their distance, discreetly, as people who speak quietly at the bedside of a dying man. It was his death which Tom had just touched on the bench

CONCHA !!!!

“ It seemed to me I was more sensitive than usual to odors” same buddy, same

He had to talk, without that he wouldn't have been able no recognize himself in his own mind. I thought he was talking to me but he wasn't looking at me. He was undoubtedly afraid to see me as I was, grey and sweating: we were alike and worse than mirrors of each other. He watched the Belgian, the living.

He had a terrible fear of suffering, it was all he thought about: it was his age. I never thought much about it and it wasn't fear of suffering that made me sweat

“That’s the expression of an almost pathological state of terror”

It was not the thought of death, nor fear; it was something anonymous, impersonal, something I could not name