Mark André > Recent Status Updates

SOLNESS.
Yes, you must be very tired, I should think.
HILDA.
Oh no! But all the same—. It's so delicious to lie and dream.
SOLNESS.
Do you dream much of nights?
HILDA.
Oh yes! Almost always.
SOLNESS.
What do you dream about most?
HILDA.
I sha'n't tell you to-night. Another time perhaps.

I am seated here appalled at the naïveté of history of your nation. Paris and Helen were the excuse of the war. All the Greek states in addition to the Sparta of Menelaus attacked Troy because Troy controlled the Dardanelles and charged the ruinous tolls for passage through, which the Greeks, who would like very dearly the easy sea passage for trade with the Oriental East, resented with fury. It was for commerce, ...

Marathe could simultaneously speak in English and think in French.

A U.S. of modern A. where the State is not a team or a code, but a sort sloppy intersection of desires and fears, where the only public consensus a boy must surrender to is the acknowledged primacy of straight-line pursuing this flat and short-sighted idea of personal happiness:

... that he, Schtitt, knew real tennis was really about not the blend of statistical order and expansive potential that the game’s technicians revered, but in fact the opposite — not-order, limit, the places where things broke down, fragmented into beauty. That real tennis was no more reducible to delimited factors or probability curves than chess or boxing, the two games of which it’s a hybrid.

... even though Schtitt still does favor those high and shiny black boots, and yes the epaulets, still, and now a weatherman’s telescoping pointer that’s a clear stand-in for the now-forbidden old riding crop, he has, Schtitt, at near what must be seventy, mellowed to the sort of elder-statesman point where he’s become mostly a dispenser of abstractions rather than discipline, a philosopher instead of a king.

Your first nightmare away from home and folks, your first night at the Academy, it was there all along: The dream is that you awaken from a deep sleep, wake up suddenly damp and panicked and are overwhelmed with the sudden feeling that there is distillation of total evil in the dark strange subdorm room with you, that evil’s essence and center is right here, in this room, right now.

A one-hitter can be wastelessly employed, then allowed to cool, wrapped in two baggies and then further wrapped and sealed in a Ziploc and then enclosed in two sport-socks in a gear bag along with a lighter and eyedrops and mint-pellets and the little film-case of dope itself, and it’s highly portable and odor-free and basically totally covert.

The note from last night’s Subject is on violet bond once folded and with a circle of darker violet dead-center where the subject’s perfume-spritzer had hit it. The only interesting thing about the script, but also depressing, is that every single circle — o’s, d’s, p’s, the #s 6 and 8 — is darkened in, while the i’s are dotted not with circles but with tiny little Valentine hearts, which are not darkened in.

Does this mean they think I’m gifted?’
SPFFFT. ‘Here you are. Drink up.’
‘Thanks. SHULGSHULGSPAHHH . . . Whew. Ah.’
‘You were thirsty.’
‘So then if I sit down you’ll fill me in.’

The insect on the shelf was back. It didn’t seem to do anything. It just came out of the hole in the girder onto the edge of the steel shelf and sat there. After a while it would disappear back into the hole in the girder, and he was pretty sure it didn’t do anything in there either. He felt similar to the insect inside the girder his shelf was connected to, but was not sure just how he was similar.

‘The integrity of my sleep has been forever compromised, sir.’

Like a stick of butter being hit with a mallet.

I had stopped crying, he remembers, and simply stood there, the size and shape of a hydrant, in red PJ’s with attached feet, holding out the mold, seriously, like the report of some kind of audit.

Sharp curved palmshadows move slightly over the pine table’s shine, the one head’s shadow a black moon.

These ruled barriers along which the traced words, run, march, halt, walk, stumble at doubtful points, stumble up again in compeirative safety seem to have been drawn first of all in a pretty checker with lampblack and blackthorn. Such crossing is antechristian of course, but the use of the homeborn shillelagh as an aid to calligraphy shows a distinct advance from savagery to barbarism.

You is feeling like you was lost in the bush, boy. You says: It is a puling sample jungle of woods. You most shouts out: Bethicket me for a stump of a beech if I have the poultriest notions what the farest he all means.

she was, after all, wearing for the space of the time being some definite articles of evolutionary clothing, ... suddenly full of local colour and personal perfume and suggestive, too, of so very much more and capable of being stretched, filled out, if need or wish were, of having their surprisingly like coincidental parts separated don’t they now, for better survey by the deft hand oi an expert, don’t you know?

Erect, beseated, mountback, against a partywall, below freezigrade, by the use of quill or style, with turbid or pellucid mind, accompmied or the reverse by mastication, interrupted by visit of seer to scribe or of scribe to site, atwixt two showers or atosst of a trike, rained upon or blown around, by a rightdown regular racer from the soil or by a too pained whittlewit laden with the loot of learning?

Closer inspection of the bordereau would reveal a multiplicity of person- alities infflcted on the documents or document and some prevision of virtual crime or crimes might be made by anyone imwary enough before any suitable occasion for it or them had so far managed to happen along.

The proteiform graph itself is a polyhedron of scripture. There was a time when naif alphabetters would have written it down the tracing of a purely deliquescent recidivist, possibly ambidextrous, snubnosed probably and presenting a strangely profound rainbowl in his (or her) occiput.

Wherefore let it hardly by any being thinking be said either or thought that the prisoner of that sacred edifice, were he an Ivor the Boneless or an Olaf the Hide, was at his best a onestone parable, a rude breathing on the void of to be, a venter hearing his own bauchspeech in backwords, or, more strictly, but tristumed initials, the cluekey to a worldroom beyond the roomwhorld, . . .

Well, even should not the framing up of such figments in the evidential order bring the true truth to light as fortuitously as a dim seer’s setting of a starchart might (heaven helping it!) un- cover the nakedness of an unknown body in the fields of blue ...

It was when I was in my farfather out at the west and she and myself, the redheaded girl, firstnighting down Sycomore Lane. Fine feelplay we had of it mid the kissabetts frisking in the kool kurkle dusk of the lushiness. My perfume of the pampas, says she (meaning me) putting out her netherlights, and I’d sooner one precious sip at your pure mountain dew than enrich my acquaintance with that big brewer’s belch.

What is going on in Moscow is inconceivable to the mind of man. Seven traders from the Sukharevka Market have already been arrested for spreading rumours about the end of the world to be brought upon us by the Bolsheviks.

And what is freedom? Smoke, mirage, fiction ... the raving of those unhappy-democrats...

From somewhere above and to the side came the sound of choral singing, softened by ceilings and carpets.

I shan't even try to understand what it's all about — I won't understand anyway.

...All who claim that another can with thy loveliness compare..."

Oh, no, you don't! No. There's a uniformed porter at the door. And there's nothing worse than that in the whole world. Many times more dangerous than a janitor. An altogether loathsome breed. More repulsive even than cats.