We come to a house and walk down the small walkway to its backyard. In the yard there are two screens and a slide projector. People are seated in lawn chairs, watching slides of trees.
Chaos is more freedom; in fact, total freedom. But no meaning. I want to be free to act, and I also want my actions to mean something.
We are often insane with happiness. We are also very unhappy for reasons neither of us can do anything about. Like being separated.
I think about my mother singing after lunch on a Summer afternoon, twirling in blue dress across the floor of her dressing room
There is only one page left to write on. I will fill it with words of only one syllable. I love. I have loved. I will love.
It’s dark now and I am very tired. I love you, always. Time is nothing.
However," he continued, "this canvas is preferable to the paintings of that varlet Rubens, with his mountains of Flemish flesh sprinkled with vermilion, his waves of red hair and his medley of colors.
But, with time, one has encountered many of the monsters, and one is increasingly less terrified of those still to be met.
He thought of women in terms of breasts, not minds, and it always seemed to irritate him that most women had both.
Happiness is the lucky pane of glass you carry in your head. It takes all your cunning just to hang on to it, and once it's smashed you have to move into a different sort of life.
We are going to die, and that makes us the lucky ones. Most people are never going to die because they are never going to be born.
Lo más importante es resistir y perseverar, pues la vida salvaje promete lo siguiente: después del invierno, viene siempre la primavera.
I was used to sleeping with people because I endlessly found myself in identical situations where it was easier to just fuck them than to say no.
And so we must dig in to see where raw words and fundamental sounds are buried so that the great silence within can finally be decoded.
She could see that to lose a sibling was hard: it could only seem unnatural:out of time, out of order, a vicious re-run of your own departure into nothingness.
There is nothing revolutionary whatsoever about the control of women's bodies by men. The woman's body is the terrain on which patriarchy is erected.
Prose fills a space, like a liquid poured in from the top, but poetry occupies it, arrays itself in formation, sets up camp and refuses to budge.
Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves...
What if I forgave myself even though I'd done something I shouldn't have?
I had problems a therapist couldn't solve; grief that no man in a room could ameliorate.
It was April in Minneapolis and snowing, the flakes coming down in thick swirls enchanting the city
