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Old 08-24-2003, 10:20 PM   #1
fodder
 
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I remember the ceiling over every bathtub I've stretched out in. I remember the texture of the ceilings and the cracks and the colors and the damp spots and the light fixtures. I remember the tubs, too: the antique griffin-legged tubs, and the moder coffin-shaped tubs, and the fancy pink marble tubs overlooking indoor lily ponds, and I remember the shapes and sizes of the water taps and the different sorts of soap holders.
I said to myself: "Doreen is dissolving, Lenny Shepherd is dissolving, Frankie is dissolving, New York is dissolving, they are all dissolving away and none of them matter any more. I don't know them, I have never known them and I am very pure. All that liquor and those sticky kisses I saw and the dirt that settles on my skin on the way back is turning into something pure."

-bell jar
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Old 08-26-2003, 12:23 AM   #2
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"Eugene didn't know where he came from, but he was sure it was from one of the great cities of the Atlantic seaboard -- from New York, Boston, Baltimore or Philadelphia. He had seen his face, his figure, and his kind a million times upon the pavements of those cities and incredibly now, that dark unhappy face which never before had seemed to him to be a face at all, nothing but a tidal flood of nameless faces, that strident and abusive tongue which had never before seemed to him to be a single tongue, but just a common, nameless, and unnumbered ugliness of rasping voices, an anathema of bitter cries and harsh derisions--a constant phrase, a dissonance, a weather of the cities life--all that had been nameless, faceless, characterless and obscure-- the look, the sound, the smell of the man-swarm ciphers of the city as dark-eyed, dark-faced, and bitter-tongued they swarm along the pavements of the cities--all this, in that strange place, was suddenly, weirdly, resumed into a single chaacter-- a character that was hard, bitter, unforgettably itself, and that no change of sky or land or custom, nor the huge impact of all the alien and formidable pageantry of the earth, could ever alter by a jot."

-Thomas Wolfe
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Old 08-29-2003, 01:16 AM   #3
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We all need someone to look at us. We can be divided into four categories according to the kind of look we wish to live under.


The first category longs for the look of an infinite number of anonymous eyes, in other words, for the look of the public. That is the case with the German singer, the American actress, and even the tall, stooped editor with the big chin. He was accustomed to his readers, and when one day the Russians banned his newspaper, he had the feeling that the atmosphere was suddenly a hundred times thinner. Nothing could replace the look of unkown eyes. He thought he would suffocate. Then one day he realized that he was constantly being followed, bugged and surreptitiously photographed in the street. Suddenly he had anonymous eyes on him and he could breathe again! He began making theatrical speeches to the microphones in his wall. In the police, he had found his lost public.


The second categoryis made up of ppl who have a vital need to be looked at by many known eyes. They are the tireless hosts of cocktail parties and dinners. They are happier than the people in the first category, who, when they lose their public, have the feeling that the lights have gone out in the room of their lives. This happens to nearly all of them sooner or later. People in the second category, on the other hand, can always come up with the eyes they need. Marie-Claude and her daughter belong in the second category.

Then there is a third category, the category of people who need to be constantly before the eyes of the person they love. Their situation is as dangerous as the situation of people in the first category. One day the eyes of their beloved will close, and the room will go dark. Teresa and Tomas belong in the third category.


And finally there is the fourth category, the rarest, the category of people who lives in the imaginary eyes of those who are not present. They are the dreamers. Franz, for example. He traveled to the borders of Cambodia only for Sabina. As the bus bumped along the Thai road, he could feel her eyes fixed on him in a long stare.

-kundera
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Old 09-08-2003, 12:39 AM   #4
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"when i saw those long-haired heads spitting out saliva and words, my old hatred for the age of immaturity flooded back and ait seemed to me that i could see nothing but actors, their faces covered by masks of cretinous virility and arrogant brutishness; i found no extenuation in the thought that the masks hid another (more human) face, since the real horror seemed to lie in the fact that the faces beneath the masks were fiercely devoted to the inhumanity and courseness of the masks."
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Old 09-13-2003, 11:33 PM   #5
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"Sometimes strands of hair slipped out of the tight knot, began to curl, lay on the back of her neck, and moved gently against it in the draft. Sometimes Hanna wore a dress with a neckline low enough to reveal the birthmark high on her left shoulder. Then I remembered how I had blown the hair away from the neck and how I had kissed that birthmark and that neck. But the memory was like a retrieved file. I felt nothing."
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Old 10-19-2003, 08:07 PM   #6
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"We sit in the meadow ten yards from the pool and eat the bread we have carried in our pockets. The scene is a picture of deceptive repose. The meadow is embroidered in autumn flowers, the trees briliant with crimson leaves, the Pool a mirror. On it's far side are white limestone cliffs, capped by the dark brick heights of the Wall. All is quiet, save for the gasping of the pool"
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Old 10-19-2003, 08:15 PM   #7
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"It took him about five hours to get ready, While he was doing it, I went over to my window and opened it and packed a snowball with my bare hands. The snow was very good for packing. I didn't throw it at anything though. I started to throw it. At a car that was parked across the street. But i changed my mind. The car looked so nice and white. Then i started to throw it at a hydrant, but that looked too nice and white, too. Finally I didn't throw it at anything. All i did was close the window and walk around the room with the snowball, packing it harder. A little while later, i still had it with me when I and Brossard and Ackely got on the bus. The bus driver opened the doors and made me throw it out. I told him I wasn't going to chuck it at anybody, but he woudn't believe me. People never believe you."
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Old 10-19-2003, 08:27 PM   #8
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"I made this appeal and was silent. The dead silence went on for almost a minute, and one more drop fell on my closed eyelid, but i knew, i knew and believed infinitely and unshakably that everything would without a doubt change immediately. And then my grave was opened. I don't know, that is, whether it was opened or dug open, but i was seized by some dark and unknown being and we found ourselves in space. I suddenly regained my sight. It was a pitch-black night. Never, never had there been such darkness! We were flying through space at a terrific speed and we had already left the earth behind us. I did not question the being who was carrying me. I was proud and waited. I was telling myself that I was not afraid. I cannot remember how long we were flying, nor can i give you an idea of the time; it all happened as it always does happen in dreams when you leap over space and time and the laws of nature and reason, and only pause at the points which are especially dear to your heart. All I remember is that I suddenly beheld a little star in the darkness.
'Is that Sirius?' i asked, feeling suddenly unable to restrain myself, for i had made up my mind not to ask any questions.
'No,' answered the being who was carrying me, 'that is the same star you saw between the clouds when you were coming home.'"
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Old 10-19-2003, 09:16 PM   #9
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"I don't know, to this day i cannot decide, and at the time, of course, I was still less able to understand what I was feeling than now. I cannot get on without domineering and tyrannising over someone, but htere is no explaining anything by reasoning and so it is useless to reason."
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Old 10-20-2003, 12:47 AM   #10
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"I always was fond of eating and drinking, even as a child--especially eating, in those early days. I had an appetite then, also a digestion. I remember a dull-eyed, livid-complexioned gentleman coming to dine at our house once. He watched me eating for about five minutes, quite fascinated, seemingly, and then he turned to my farther, with, 'Does your boy ever suffer from dyspepsia?'
'I never heard him complain of anything of that kind,' replied my father. 'Do you ever suffer from dyspepsia, Collywobbles?' (They called me Collywobbles, but it was not my real name.)"
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Old 10-20-2003, 11:15 PM   #11
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We went running about in the street, retreating to the hard, brown lawns when the one who was "It" came too close. Jimmy Lane came out of his house and stood watching us for a short while, and then joined in. Every time he was "It," he chased Paula in her powder blue snowsuit, and she screamed shrilly and looked around at him with her wide, watery eyes, and he always managed to catch her.
Only one time she forgot to look where she was going, and as Jimmy reached out to tag her, she slid into the oil slick. We all froze when she went down on her side as if we were laying statues. No one said a word, and for a minute there was only the sound of the planes across the bay. The dull, green light of late afternoon came closing down on us, cold and final as a window blind.
Paula's snowsuit was smeared wet and black nwith oil along the side. Her angora mittens were dripping like black cat's fur. Slowly, she sat up and looked at us standing around her, as if searching for something. Then, suddenly, her eyes fixed on me.
"You," she said deliberately, pointing at me, "you pushed me."
There was another second of silence, and the Jimmy Lane turned on me. "You did it," he taunted. "You did it."
Sheldon and Paula and Jimmy and the rest of them faced me with a strange joy flickering in the back of hteir eyes. "You did it, you pushed her," they said.
And even when I shouted "I did not!" they were all moving in on me, chanting in a chorus, "Yes, you did, yes, you did, we saw you." In the well of faces moving toward me I saw no help, and I began to wonder if Jimmy had pushed Paula, or if she had fallen by herself, and I was not sure. I wasn't sure at all.


superman and paula brown's new snowsuit, sylvia plath
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Old 10-20-2003, 11:22 PM   #12
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"I know you are a straightfoward man and that you pride yourself on it. But put one question to yourself: Why in fact should one tell the truth? What obliges us to do it? And why do we consider telling the truth to be a virtue? Imagine that you meet a madman, who claims that he is a fish and that we are all fish. Are you going to argue with him? Are you going to undress in front of him and show him that you don't have fins? Are you going to say to his face what you think? Well, tell me!"

His brother was silent, and Eduard went on: "If you told him the whole truth and nothing but the truth, only what you really thought, you would enter into a serious conversation with a madman and you yourself would become mad. And it is the same way with the world that surrounds us. If I obstinately told the truth to its face, it would mean that I was taking it seriously And to take seriously something so unserious means to lose all one's own seriousness. I have to lie, if I don't want to take madmen seriously and become a madman myself."

eduard and god, laughable loves, kundera
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Old 10-20-2003, 11:37 PM   #13
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my saliva is sugary, my body warm: i feel neutral. my knife is on the table. i open it. why not? it would be a change in any case. i put my left hand on the pad and stab the knife into the palm. the movement was too nervous; the blade slipped, the wound is uperficial. it bleeds. then what? what has changed? still, i watch with satisfaction, on the white paper, across the lines i wrote a little while ago, this tiny pool of blood which has at last stopped being me. four lines on a white paper, a sport of blood, that makes a beautiful memory. i must write benath it: "today i gave up writing my book on the marquis de rollebon."

this book has tons: nausea, sartre
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Old 10-20-2003, 11:46 PM   #14
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was i full of bitterness? i don't know, perhaps i was very bitter. but there was a strange feature in me, a feature that had existed since my earliest childhood perhaps: if i was treated badly, absolutely wronged, thoroughly insulted and humiliated, i always felt an irresistible desire to submit passively to my humiliations and to the whims of my humiliator, even to anticipate those whims. "all right, you've humiliated me and now i'll wallow in the dirt even more, so just watch and enjoy the sight!" touchard used to beat me to prove that i was the son not of a semator but of a flunkey, so i immediatly adapted myself to the role of a flunkey. not only would i hand him his clothes as he dressed but, of my own accord, i'd grab a clothes-brush and start brushing the last specks of dust off him without his order or request; indeed, at times i'd pursue him, brush in hand, seixed by a sort of flunkeyish enthusiasm to remove every last particle from his frock coat until he himself would stop me, saying: "that'll do arkady, that'll do for now."

- the adolescent, dostoevsky
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Old 10-21-2003, 08:08 PM   #15
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"To the devil with classiscal mishmash, Professor Solanka silently exclaimed. For a greater deity was all around him: America, in the highest hour of it's hybrid, omnivorous power. America, to which he had come to erase himself. To be free of attachment and so also of anger, fear, and pain. Eat me, Professor Solanka silently prayed. Eat me, America, and give me peace."
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