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Posts tagged iphone

Voice.

“Now listen to me, please: On a winter day, when you were a lycée student, it was snowing, and you were lost in thought. You could hear God inside you, and you were trying to forget him. You could see that the world was one, but you thought that if you could close your eyes to this vision, you could be more unhappy and also more intelligent. And you were right. Only people who are very intelligent and very unhappy can write good poems. So you heroically undertook to endure the pains of faithlessness, just to be able to write good poems. But you didn’t realize then that when you lost that voice inside you, you’d end up all alone in an empty universe.”
Orhan Pamuk, Snow

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Seeing.

Art elevates us by intensifying and densifying the world. Of course, this is true only of good art; the least trace of anything awkward or amateurish, and we remain in our unelevated state, our reality of blushing, stumbling, idiotic misunderstandings and blunders.
— Karl Ove Knausgaard’s “Saga” for the New York Times, one of the most awkward essays I’ve ever read, but some densifying I’m on the fence about.

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Eve.


The writing of a book gets under way when the writer discovers that he is magnetized in a certain direction, toward a certain arc of the circumference, which is sometimes minimal, delimitable within a few degrees. Then everything he comes across — even a poster or a sign or a newspaper headline or words heard by chance in a café or in a dream — is deposited in a protected area like material waiting to be elaborated.
Roberto Calasso, La Folie Baudelaire

Anyway, Merry Christmas!

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Contigo.

I feel, I explained yesterday, like I’m sitting in the kitchen while God cooks dinner. No conversation, but there’s contact, care.

This is, I guess, my “finding-yourself” year; taken because everyone told me I ought to. I’m no more convinced of the value of this time than I was six months or a year ago, but I’m nearly a quarter of the way in, I suppose.

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Edenic.

“I think it was figs that they ate in the Garden of Eden, anyway,” our professor said. “You know if you ate figs — they are truly paradise.”

I like poetry.

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