emily’s Reviews > 2666 > Status Update
emily
is on page 297 of 912
‘We pretend there’s nothing wrong, but there is—We’re being fucking stifled. You let off steam your own way. I beat the shit out of people or let them beat the shit out of me—a fucking apocalyptic mayhem. What kind of music do you like? And what books do you read? I used to read everything—Now all I read is poetry—the one thing that isn’t contaminated—the one thing that isn’t part of the game—only poetry isn’t shit.’
— Apr 04, 2026 12:05PM
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emily’s Previous Updates
emily
is on page 333 of 912
‘The pain doesn’t matter—as long as it isn’t unbearable. & all around him, ghosts. Life is demand & supply—but that’s no way to live. A third leg is needed to keep the table from collapsing into—garbage pit of history. But the sun has its uses—any fool knows—From up close it’s hell, but from far away you’d have to be a vampire not to see how useful it is. Maybe now is the time for a recipe: Brussels Sprouts & Lemon.’
— 17 hours, 9 min ago
emily
is on page 288 of 912
‘Most people are cowards to the last breath. I’m telling you—a human being, broadly speaking—is the closest thing there is to a rat. Primitive man was ignorant of language—he communicated by brainwaves, as animals and plants do. When he resorted to sounds & gestures & hand signals to communicate, he began to lose the gift of telepathy—loss was accelerated—in cities—distancing himself—from nature. Ah, Chile—Cortázar’
— Apr 03, 2026 12:56PM
emily
is on page 260 of 912
‘People have a thirst to learn about other people’s lives—to know what the old chincuales did—learn something, although they aren’t prepared to jump through the same hoops themselves. The word chincuales, said Augusto Guerra, like all the words in the Mexican tongue, has a number of senses. First, it means flea or bedbug bites, those little red welts, you know? Those cracks in the psyche. The water tasted different—’
— Apr 01, 2026 05:51PM
emily
is on page 240 of 912
‘He was sitting under a larch—smoking w/ absent look on his face. You’ve changed a lot—she said. He recognised her instantly. You haven’t, he said. Thank you, she said. You should stay—It’s too late to go. There aren’t any more trains—he lied. All that exists, or remains, of Duchamp’s stay in Buenos Aires is a readymade—his whole life—readymade—his way of appeasing fate—all Duchamp did—in Buenos Aires was play chess’
— Apr 01, 2026 12:52PM
emily
is on page 204 of 912
‘She whispered: Pylades, Orestes—bluish nimbuses—grey cumulonimbuses—dissolved—or were carried off toward the edge of the grounds where a dark forest rose—branches of the trees silver in the light falling from the hills. And then she told him what she had really come to say: that she—knew that love, no matter how mistreated or mutilated, always left room for hope, and that hope was her plan (or the other way around)’
— Mar 31, 2026 05:33PM
emily
is on page 180 of 912
‘I don’t know how long we’ll last together, she said in her letter. It doesn’t matter to me—Her pretext was a plan to visit her favourite poet—Mondragón, near San Sebastián. He listened to her explanations for a whole night as she packed her bag and promised she’d come home soon—The poet looked her in the eyes and asked for a cigarette—she handed him a cigarette. The poet said thank you, & then he said perseverance.’
— Mar 31, 2026 10:37AM
emily
is on page 153 of 912
‘Where there were vultures—there were no other birds—industrial parks—surrounded by slums—The sky looked like a carnivorous flower. After that moment—reality—seemed to tear like paper scenery, & when it was stripped away, it revealed: a smoking landscape—I walked for a long time until I realised I wasn’t crying, but that it was raining, & I was soaked. ‘The strangest part of the dream—was that the water was alive.’’
— Mar 29, 2026 05:27PM
emily
is on page 133 of 912
‘Barely audible—brief moans shooting like meteorites over the desert—the framed space of the hotel room & the dream—a few stray words. Quickness, urgency, speed, agility—The words tunnelled through the rarefied air of the room like virulent roots through dead flesh. Our culture—said a voice. Our freedom—The stillness of her body, something reminiscent of inertia—defenselessness—you're missing your fucking shadow—’
— Mar 17, 2026 12:42PM
emily
is on page 108 of 912
‘Have you seen her? they asked. I have, said the gallery owner—Her first impulse was to go down to the bar—but—she decided to go to bed. The hum continued & she thought it must be the air-conditioning—the Pacific Ocean, producing an enormous curvature of space. It made a person hungry to travel in that light, although also, and maybe more insistently, she thought, it made you want to bear your hunger until the end.’
— Mar 16, 2026 10:37AM
emily
is on page 78 of 912
‘He believed in redemption. Deep down—may even have believed in progress. Coincidence, on the other hand—obeys no laws and if it does we don’t know what they are. Coincidence, if you’ll permit me the simile, is like the manifestation of God at every moment on our planet. A senseless God making senseless gestures at his senseless creatures. In that hurricane—in that osseous implosion, we find communion—night plunged—’
— Mar 14, 2026 11:50AM
