In the Dark with my Dress on Fire: Mhy life in Cape Town, London, Havana and ome Again
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Le Guin, Always Coming Home Side by side, not truly quiet but quiescent, two gnarls of human scribble, human cipher, human dream.
He fell back into the net, which rocked imperceptibly above them, and he sang quietly to himself, as if that helped him negotiate his exhaustion. He was, indeed, so confidently happy that he completely forgot Fran and he did not again yearn over her, for almost two days. We shall yet make these United States a moral nation! Adria Frizzi. Capote When the long winter nights come on and the wolves follow their meat into the lower valleys, he may be seen running at the head of the pack through the pale moonlight or glimmering borealis, leaping gigantic above his fellows, his great throat a-bellow as he sings a song of the younger world, which is the song of the pack.
Somebody threw a dead dog after him down the ravine.
So the blind will lead the blind, and the deaf shout warnings to one another until their voices are lost. Then for a moment in that cold Irish soul of mine, a glimmer of the joy of the flesh came toward me, rare as the eye of the rarest tear of compassion, and we laughed together after all, because to have heard that sex was time and time the connection of new circuits was a part of the poor odd dialogues which give hope to us noble humans for more than one night.
Roger Foster waited in the shadow of a long-boughed two-trunked silver maple as Dubin ran up the moonlit road, holding his half-stiffened phallus in his hand, for his wife with love. Before reaching the final line, however, he had already understood that he would never leave that room, for it was foreseen that the city of mirrors or mirages would be wiped out by the wind and exiled from the memory of men at the precise moment when Aureliano Babilonia would finish deciphering the parchments, and that everything written on them was unrepeatable since time immemorial and forever more, because races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth.
Gregory Rabassa. The old man who will not laugh is a fool. Als ick kan. Very few castaways can claim to have survived so long at sea as Mr. Patel, and none in the company of an adult Bengal tiger. I put my left hand on his left hand and waved my other hand in front of him and realized that both his eyes were darkened now with his wonderful and perfect sight. He is sitting there cross-legged in front of the wall, and slowly his face bursts into a smile like flames.
Cabs and omnibuses hurried to and fro, and crowds passed, hastening in every direction, and the sun was shining. He told me what he was going to do when he won his money then I said it was time to go tracking in the mountains, so off we went, counting our footprints in the snow, him with his bony arse clicking and me with the tears streaming down my face.
He never sleeps, the judge. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die.
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Passed and paled into the darkening land, the world to come. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery. Everyone was looking up at me and Sub, and I was not sure what I had seen but I knew what we had done. He fits himself around her, her silk pyjamas, her scent, her warmth, her beloved form, and draws closer to her. Blindly, he kisses her nape. You will have to learn everything all over again. And thus, pursuers and pursued flew on, over an endless sea.
Out, Out, Brief Candle! | heumazodemon.cf
It was the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan. The body was burned to ashes; but for many days, the head, that hive of subtlety, fixed on a pole in the Plaza, met, unabashed, the gaze of the whites; and across the Plaza looked toward St. Something further may follow of this Masquerade. But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing.
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Milne, The House at Pooh Corner After all, tomorrow is another day. It was a fine cry—loud and long—but it had no bottom and it had no top, just circles and circles of sorrow. For now she knew what Shalimar knew: If you surrendered to the air, you could ride it. By and by all trace is gone, and what is forgotten is not only the footprints but the water too and what is down there. The rest is weather. Not the breath of the disremembered and unaccounted for, but wind in the eaves or spring ice thawing too quickly. Just weather.
Certainly no clamor for a kiss. Now they will rest before shouldering the endless work they were created to do down here in Paradise. From the roof there fluttered eggs and roses. The hands shadow themselves against the wall, large, touch in huge shadows on the wall, merge, move as one huge hand toward death.
I am out the door and in the potholed and rutted driveway, scrambling ahead of Taylor, greedy with wants and reckless from hope. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. But it was not until much later that I was able to get any real sleep. In a place far away from anyone or anywhere, I drifted off for a moment.
Jay Rubin. Gripping the receiver, I raised my head and turned to see what lay beyond the telephone booth. Where was I now?
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I had no idea. No idea at all. Where was this place? All that flashed into my eyes were the countless shapes of people walking by to nowhere. Again and again, I called out for Midori from the dead center of this place that was no place.
You are part of a brand-new world. Philip Gabriel. I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita. But whatever happens, wherever the scene is laid, somebody, somewhere, will quietly set out—somebody has already set out, somebody still rather far away is buying a ticket, is boarding a bus, a ship, a plane, has landed, is walking toward a million photographers, and presently he will ring at my door—a bigger, more respectable, more competent Gradus.
The men began singing, a grave slow song that drifted away into the night. Soon the road was empty. All that remained of the German regiment was a little cloud of dust.
Sandra Smith. McTeague remained stupidly looking around him, now at the distant horizon, now at the ground, now at the half-dead canary chittering feebly in its little gilt prison. Could the truth be so simple? So terrible?
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The Reddingtons always went to a hotel where the women guests were not permitted to smoke. How they say the camera catches you, but how in point of fact you will always be able to get away. Milo Magnani glows with quiet pride, gives their thoughts back to these people, and, straightening his bowtie unnecessarily, rises to depart. Around him, throats clear, feet scrape, candy wrappers crinkle. The world grows brighter and brighter and brighter. Milo inhales and exhales. He waits. The film begins. Time longer than rope. But apart from seeing Jokey again, my life remained an uninflected one of stalking around unbothered, until finally one day a thought succeeded in forming itself: that what had been a lifelong irritant—that I walked around the world unseen, as if invisible—had now become a strange and beautiful blessing, freeing me to live my life all over again, as if the previous one had only been a rough draft, a vague outline to be crossed over, exceeded, to be transcended, as if that life was the earthly life and this one, the California one, with myself benumbed and calm and floating inside the bubble of mall after white mall—places that were like hospitals with their piped-in music and blanching light—as if this life, finally, was the heavenly one.
The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.