1/14/11

I wonder some days of the persistent sun, of its never-ending warmth; it is that which is and giving to all that we know as beautiful, marvelous. The night indeed has characteristics quite distinct, separate, if only that it is the blanket which lay upon us at the close of each succeeding day, yet to live in absolute darkness, as I can only imagine, would be to take from life the subtle glow of all that has been touched by the sun, but as she smiles, unburdened of tufts of clouds, still do we live in a burl of that which she cannot reach. If it were enough that the sun has risen...yet it is not. If it were enough that night affords to us a new beginning in the morning...but it is not, and that which wearies us grows to such extents that it swallows all that has freely been given to us, that which is hope. No longer then will anything alleviate the fever within, for the never-ending joy of a new day has been forgotten. Only until it be that which is enough to inspire us, endlessly, will we be free from the horror of the modern world.

'But the cookery-book made Dora's head ache, and the figures made her cry.'

-C.Dickens

1/6/10

-Move to France.
-Meet a French woman.
-Fall in love.
-Fall out of love.
-Repeat in Rome.

9/13/10

'Either all, or nothing!'

This idea fascinates me for I feel as though it to be the source of  the beauty, the ideal, of that which exists in such a world, that which on my better days I am able to see, that which you, at a moment in my life when the idea of either all, or nothing, seemed a rather futile pursuit, have, once again, given form to words, yet as beautiful as it is, and as beautiful as I feel it to be, it is very much a love within myself, and accordingly, the source from which much anguish rests, yet is it not unreasonable then to love as such? But are we not unreasonable creatures...

----

In love we are selfless, and any and all want of self, ours or another, disappears, and like the cloud do we drift upon the gentle draft of our lover's breath...

----

12/11/10

The dirge which is December, this December, florid and rosy cheeks, yes, but how cloudy and cold as each morning a blanket of frost glazes all which lay bare, dormant, outside. In winter the mornings are the most difficult if only for the reason that the temperature is most disagreeable and unrelenting. To rise before the sun has opened her eyes is beyond my understanding, to rise and to then go outside is a step closer towards insanity. Each day should start no earlier then noon and end no later then six, and food, always food, good food, for dinner to warm the heart and leave the body exhausted, for there is nothing quite as pleasant as a full belly and a nap to follow...

Began Proust's On Art and Literature today and the prologue is enough to put tears to my eyes as he systematically draws for me how it is and when, from intellect and memory, we are able to draw from moments since forgotten in our past. I see as he forms the groundwork for Remembrance of Things Past, yet it is a rusk for the moment and in Remembrance it is the ever so famous madeline cakes of his grandmother...

'My unchanged love is with my darling child, and I forgive her!'

-C.Dickens

The contemporary man is a man who menstruates- not blood, but thoughts.

I sometimes feel, though I know it to be day and night, that those whose bodies, from birth, are born unable to communicate in a coherent dialogue with a beautiful mind, is analogous to the station with which a man of letters holds, for humanity be the body which is unable to interpret the subtleties and complexities of one trying to communicate with the whole.

'Rather than admire the mediocre great men over whom passersby nudge each other in awe, I venerate the young, unknown geniuses who die in their teens, their souls shattered-delicate, phosphorescent glowworms that one must see to know they really did exist.'

-K.Hamsun

'They say that Dulcinea del Toboso, so often mentioned in history, was the best hand at salting pork of any woman in all La Mancha.'


-M.Cervantes