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"The first peak is called Mount Worshipmy... to the West it looks onto the Mound of the Great God's Smitten Beasts... There is an animal here which looks like an ape but its forearms have markings like a leopard, and it is good at throwing things... There is a bird here which looks like a duck but it only has one wing and eye. It can only fly if it and another bird join."

...is there any better literature than this?

Ah if they could only begin, and do what they want with me, and succeed at last, in doing what they want with me, I'm ready to be whatever they want, I'm tired of being matter, matter, pawed and pummelled endlessly in vain.

[they being 'the voices and thoughts of the devils who beset me'; the devils being, I suppose, the twinges and twitches of existence]

I once knew a doctor who held that scientifically speaking the latest breath could only issue from the fundament and this therefore, rather than the mouth, the orifice to which the family should present the mirror, before opening the will.

...what to still this gnawing of termites in my Punch and Judy box...?

A stream at long intervals bestrid – but to hell with all this fucking scenery.

Then live, long enough to feel, behind my closed eyes, other eyes close. What an end.

I know those little phrases that seem so innocuous and, once you let them in, pollute the whole of speech. Nothing is more real than nothing. They rise up out of the pit and know no rest until they drag you down into its dark.

With time, and nothing but my teeth and nails, I would rage up from the bowels of the earth to its crust, knowing full well I had nothing to gain. And when I had no more teeth, no more nails, I would dig through the rock with my bones.

Unfathomable mind, now beacon, now sea

"We must count upon becoming old Geezers together," Dixon proposes. They are looking directly at one another for the first time since either can remember.
"Let us meet next Summer... You must come stay in Sapperton."
"I may not travel far." ... "I wish it were not so."
... avoiding any prolong'd talk of Frailty, which he can see is costing Dixon more than his reserve of cheer may afford...

In an ordinary dream, Rebekah appears. "No need to feel pleas'd with yourself. What you found was not their sacred Well, but only a Representation of it." He wakes up into a midnight sadness, trying to say, I have tasted it, yet he has not tasted it. Now he is afraid ever to, lest his Spring be discover'd as soil'd as the Holy Wells of Gloucestershire, and therefore the Krees, and therefore his Dreams.

Had a big break from this bc of work stuff. thank god im back though. Every page has something crazy- case in point (spoken by a native):

'Those of us who knew how, have fled into Refuge in your Dreams, at last. Tho' we now pursue real lives no different at their Heart from yours, we are also your Dreams.'

This book is always haunted by possibilities and other paths, paths a nascent America sadly did not take.

Loving the Black Dogs, Mechanical Ducks, and giant revolutionary Golems - but more than that loving how much this is an eighteenth century novel that includes a real panorama of class and race so clearly and fully. Not only exposes some of the horror of the times with real clarity, but then also paradoxically shows all of the weird and wonderful parts of history left for forgotten - aka Pynchon's chief project

"As to journey west... in the same sense as the Sun, is to live, raise Children, grow older, and die, carried along by the Stream of the Day,— whilst to turn Eastward, is somehow to resist time and age, to work against the Wind, seek ever tue dawn, even, as who can say, defy Death."

...I read, sitting in a teahouse in Suzhou, avoiding making a decision about my future lol

"...believe in what haunts these shores exactly to the Atom,— ghosts ev'rywhere...,— a Reservoir of Sin, whose Weight, like that of the atmosphere, is borne day after day unnotic'd, adverted to only when some Vacuum is encounter'd,— a Stranger in Town, a Malay publickly distraught, an hour at the Lodge,— into which its Contents might rush with a Turbulence felt and wonder'd at by all."

"Raise high the roof beam, carpenters. Like Ares comes the bridegroom, taller far than a tall man. Love, Irving Sappho, formerly under contract to Elysium Studios Ltd. Please be happy happy happy with your beautiful Muriel. This is an order. I outrank everybody on this block." Boo Boo

"I have scars on my hands from touching certain people...” Seymour

I've found it again. it's somehow been in my bed for the past 2 weeks without me noticing - this feels very can xue

I've found it again. it's somehow been in my bed for the past 2 weeks without me noticing - this feels very can xue

I've lost this book somewhere :((((((( genuinely the first time ive ever lost a book im currently reading rip

shuffling footsteps and downcast eyes, tolling bells, memories of a girl wet with rain, drowning drowning...
"Good night, good night, good night"
"I suffered this. I know. It was long ago"

this all seems a little... familiar

I read a lot of strange books but this is a **strange** book lol

Right now it feels almost akin to automatic writing or something (tho I'm sure the figure in the carpet will start to show through soon)

Another amazing dream in chapter 82: Dai-yu has a nightmare in which she worries she's being married to an outsider. Bao-yu assures her of his love, and proves it by tearing out his own heart with a knife to give her. Unfortunately, in the process of finding his heart in his chest he realises it's hollow...

'Fear that the flowers at dead of night should sleep'

Bao-yu has just had a dream where he meets his own exact double, which is blamed on his sleeping in front of a giant mirror. "When you're young, your soul is not yet fully formed", so reflection is therefore dangerous. sick

Yesterday I read 100 pages and thought it was great. Today I read 50 pages and thought it sucked lol wonder how I'll feel tmrw

Anyone wanna start a crab flower club w me?

Borges' recounting of Gosse's Omphalos is as wild as any of his fiction. Also, Joyce = Funes the Memorious😱

Borges is **the** writer of the imagination, in that he treats everything - the Arabian nights, spinoza's philosophy, new fantasy novels, mathematical treatises, the kabbalah - in the same way: as works of creative imagination that create their own universes and duplicate ours. I get more excitement towards literature from Borges than anyone else- it's already bc of him that I'm getting into Flaubert, Chesterton etc

Yes I'm starting this. No I haven't finished the Iliad, Middlemarch, The Faerie Queene, or A Thousand Plateaus yet. Why do u ask?

The Beast In the Jungle is insaneeeeeeee I didn't know James had this kind of intensity in him