“There is a German word, , which has no English equivalent; it means 'the longing for something'. It has Romantic and mystical connotations; C.S. Lewis defined it as the 'inconsolable longing' in the human heart for 'we know not what'. It seems rather German to be able to specify the unspecifiable. The longing for something - or, in our case, for someone.””
“I love you." For a start, we'd better put these words on a high shelf; in a square box behind glass which we have to break with our elbow; in a bank. We shouldn't leave them lying around the house like a tube of vitamin C. If the words come too easily to hand, we'll use them without thought; we won't be able to resist. Oh, we say we won't, but we will. We'll get drunk, or lonely, or - likeliest of all - plain damn hopeful, and there are the words gone, used up, grubbied. We think we might be in love and we're trying out the words to see if they're appropriate? How can we know what we think till we hear what we say? Come off it; that won't wash. These are grand words; we must make sure we deserve them. Listen to them again: "I love you.””
“My mind is more like a roller coaster inside a labyrinth buried in an M. C. Escher painting that is riding on another roller coaster.””
“Slow down, and enjoy that stuff if it’s possible. Kathy doesn’t care what time I leave, only what time I clock out, and she knows sometimes I sleep here when I’m locked out, or have friends over. Everything’s cool as long as I clock out on time.”She swallowed that big bite she’d rammed in, and said, “Okay. Jeez, I’m so hungry, this stuff is good.”Ketchup for your fries, miss? I can recommend it”
Will C. BarnesWill C. Barnes was an American author and poet known for his vivid depictions of the American West and its landscapes. Born in 1858, he spent much of his life in the southwestern United States, where ...
“You put the card on top of the package. You scrawl her name on the outside, each letter a labor of love. C-A-S-S-I-E.””
“Σ'αγαπώ. Πρώτα πρώτα, καλά θα κάναμε να φυλάξουμε αυτή τη φράση σ'ένα ψηλό ράφι, σ'ένα τετράγωνο κουτί, πίσω από ένα τζάμι που πρέπει να σπάσουμε με τον αγκώνα μας, στην τράπεζα. Δεν πρέπει να την αφήνουμε όπου να'ναι στο σπίτι, σαν ένα σωληνάριο βιταμίνη C. Αν την έχουμε πρόχειρη, θα τη χρησιμοποιήσουμε χωρίς δεύτερη σκέψη, δεν θ'αντέξουμε στον πειρασμό. Λέμε βέβαια πως δεν θα το κάνουμε, αλλά θα το κάνουμε. Θα είμαστε μεθυσμένοι ή θα νιώθουμε μοναξιά ή -το πιθανότερο απ'όλα- θα θέλουμε να τρέφουμε ελπίδες, που να πάρει, και τότε η φράση θα χαθεί, θα καταναλωθεί, θα μαγαριστεί.””
“Et combien faut-il de ces petites garces pour faire 2,5kg à votre avis? Je vais vous le dire : il en faut 300, c'est-à-dire, une fois coupées, 600 morceaux baignant dans leur jus, des pépins à ôter 600 fois à la pointe du couteau, avec l'inquiétude d'en oublier.””
“The deaths of writers aren’t special deaths; they just happen to be described deaths. I think of Flaubert lying on his sofa, struck down – who can tell at this distance? – by epilepsy, apoplexy or syphilis, or perhaps some malign axis of the three. Yet Zola called it – to be crushed like an insect beneath a giant finger. I think of Bouilhet in his final delirium, feverishly composing a new play in his head and declaring that it must be read to Gustave. I think of the slow decline of Jules de Goncourt: first stumbling over his consonants, the c’s turning to t’s in his mouth; then being unable to remember the titles of his own books; then the haggard mask of imbecility (his brother’s phrase) slipping over his face; then the deathbed visions and panics, and all night long the rasping breaths that sounded (his brother’s words again) like a saw cutting through wet wood. I think of Maupassant slowly disintegrating from the same disease, transported in a strait-jacket to the Passy sanatorium of Dr Blanche, who kept the Paris salons entertained with news of his celebrated client; Baudelaire dying just as inexorably, deprived of speech, arguing with Nadar about the existence of God by pointing mutely at the sunset; Rimbaud, his right leg amputated, slowly losing all feeling in the limbs that remained, and repudiating, amputating his own genius –; Daudet ‘vaulting from forty-five to sixty-five’, his joints collapsing, able to become bright and witty for an evening by giving himself five morphine injections in a row, tempted by suicide –””