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“Cuidar, criar, recrear
- tríade matriz de certa vida.”

“Vivemos em legítima defesa.
No sono, recordamos — feridas do corpo
De dia, a luta inútil recomeça.”

“Tenho de chegar ao fim da vida com alguma coisa que se veja. Se vou para o Inferno, quero um amor que mereça esse destino.”

“This is how you do it. This is how you disappear completely. It's not that you vanish, it's that you make yourself into the kind of person nobody wants to see.”

“Make 'em laugh, make 'em cry, make 'em wait.”

A good book, shit, a good story, does this thing where it just comes alive in your head. It's why I've read Bleak House more times than that black-hating piece of dog shit named Dickens deserves. A good book is the same as a good painting. A bad novel is just a coloring book. But I love coloring books.

The only way for them to see us is for us to disap-pear. What would it take to do it? Bravery?

How do I remember all of this? What you think I fill my brain with, poetry? No sah, I mold all of that into a red-hot poker and brand my brain with it.

Get yourself afraid. Get yourself alone. It's not that I'm afraid so much as the fear is so fucking thick and real that I can shape it into something. I don't know what that is, but it is shaped like a knife and tastes like stomach acid.

Shit man, I was laughing when I came off the call and now I'm sadder than ever. Sad and lonely, lonely and horny, horny and sad. I'm on the world's stupidest game show answering which one is the worst.

Once more, someone else could decide.

Life was coming in from all angles and I was aiming for a straight shot through to the other side. When it's all coming at you, you have to just keep throwing digs.

‘I didn't choose where I come from’, she said. 'But | can choose how I get out of it.’

Cada um lê no poema/ o poema que traz em si.

I felt the moment expand, as if for once the world had no barriers, no enclosed fields, no emptiness. Everything around us was lit up with life.

Para sobreviver a dias cheios de nada

In our city you can say anything so long as what you say is true; over there nobody is afraid of the truth. On the contrary, we are afraid of words that hide the world instead of revealing it.

When I think more closely about the question of how to depict a world, it seems to me that mine is quite unpeopled: it lacks local colour

An imperfect image of a perfect garden. This is what it is to know something. We can only know indi-rectly. We can only look at things askance. We harvest our images. Our imperfect images.

I had spent so long erasing my own personality that it was sometimes a relief to hear that other people still had theirs.

As you grow older your fantasy life starts slipping away, early daydreams, romantic and professional, less and less likely to materialise. The options narrow, ships set sail one by one. I had seen many, many ships depart. In my mid-thirties the harbour, once crowded, had begun to empty. But what were my fantasies, exactly?

"Why don't people ever say anything real?"
And now he knew why. Because to say anything real was to say things that nobody wanted to know. Or if they wanted to know, they would not care in the right way. Or even understand.

All of us live with a huge blind spot before our eyes, neaning that no matter what we think we know we can ever fully understand how we appear to others.

Time didn't pass, I realized. It burrowed. And my life had not been moving in a line, but as a dark, coiled shell, encircling itself and tightening with time. It was this dark shell I was in, but I knew it only as morning, as the time of awakening.

“There was no way for me to have known who she was. And yet I did, the way one knows everything, or nothing, in a dream. The way nothing makes sense and yet it all fits together, the ordered chaos of detail, the disordered chaos of time passing, of time failing to pass.”

“As an act of resistance against the world of corruptible ideas and false gods, Helen rejected all notion of their existence, refusing to engage in even a memory of the parts of her life that at one point held her attention.“

“Nada cala o labirinto que somos.”

“É este maldito desinteresse, julgo que provocado por uma excessiva individualidade. Ou é esta excessiva individualidade que provoca o desinteresse, não sei. Mas estou certo de que há uma real conexão entre o desinteresse e a individualidade. Como esta ilha, que se interessa tanto pelo mundo como eu. Fechada em si mesma, desculpa-se com o Atlântico. Eu desculpo-me com o que posso.”

“A par da leitura, cozinhar salva-me todos os
dias do horror.”

Fugiam ambos à mesma solidão impossível de aguentar, e ambos, por falta de meios e de coragem, se abandonavam sem um gesto de luta à angústia da aurora como mochos aterrados