Michael Chenchard > Recent Status Updates

what could be more naked than a corpse?

I gave a lesson in summer to summer itself.

"'What! You think I need an attenuating circumstance!'" lol

"'I insist on the word "read", in its most carnivorous sense'"

"'I would have preferred to be read without the frogman's suit, without a certain perspective, without a vaccination, and, to be honest, without adverbs.'"

ok so now we finally get to the meaning of the title

took a kinda underwhelming turn

"'It is such a voluptuous moment, probably not unlike what a horse feels when it bolts, or a prisoner when he escapes.'"

"'This is not the way to go about trying to make people like you.'"
"'Make people like me? That's all I need.'"

"'Do you feel directly concerned by the Gulf crisis?'
'So concerned that I am not adding butter to my Brandy Alexander.'"

if a writer manages to be fascinating about his own novels, then there are only two possibilities: either he is merely voicing out loud what he wrote in his book, and he is a parrot; or he is explaining interesting things that he didn't discuss in his book, in which case the book in question is a failure, since it does not live up to its claims.

what might be the thoughts and moods of a great writer who knows he is going to die?
Silence. A sigh.
I dont know, my good man.
You don't know?
If I knew what I was thinking, I suppose I would have never become a writer.
you mean that you write in order to find out what you are thinking?

Only when he passed by the tannery and dye fac-
tory was he forced to do as the locals did and stuff his nostrils with
crushed mint leaves to avoid being choked by the indescribable
stench.

And the air was
full of every kind of scent: bread baking in clay ovens, cabinets filled
with spices and herbs whose names he didn’t know, flowers on win-
dowsills, compost in sheepfolds, strong, mint-scented tea, roasting
coffee, steam from the Moorish baths, tobacco in gurgling hookahs,
freshly washed clothes drying in the sun—he couldn’t stop greedily
breathing it all in.

There they enacted the story of the film they knew
so well, speaking the lines faithfully, and like hero and heroine they
experienced the ecstasy of love and the misery of death, the empti-
ness of fleeting life. All this, Seikei thought, would become their own
Marienbad.12

Sometimes he felt
like some ancient fish washed by the waves at last into a sea within a
dormant volcano, his eyes witnessing daybreak over a new world.
His unquiet body, too, welcomed the dawn of a new life.