January 2012
131 posts
“Bien sé que hay un desencuentro entre los seres que se pierden unos a otros...”
– Clarice Lispector (via astridavila)
notas⎯☁⎯de átomos y escritura
El átomo es lo más sublime que ha pasado por el corazón del hombre: la representación de lo consustancial a todos los seres, a la materia, a todo cuerpo en el universo. Lo más minúsculo y a la vez lo más esencial, lo único indivisible en un mundo escindido, desintegrable, esencialmente fragmentario. El átomo es lo único que, al componerlo todo, no es posible quebrar, que permanece intacto e...
“I am the twentieth century. I am the ragtime and the tango; sans-serif, clean...”
– Thomas Pynchon, V. (via estuarios)
2 tags
Lolita (Vladimir Nabokov)
What drives me insane is the twofold nature of this nymphet, of every nymphet, perhaps; this mixture in my Lolita of tender dreamy childishness and a kind of eerie vulgarity, stemming from the snub-nosed cuteness of ads and magazine pictures, from the blurry pinkness of adolescent maidservants in the Old Country (smelling of crushed daisies and sweat); and from very young harlots disguised as...
2 tags
Lolita (Vladimir Nabokov)
I was still walking behind Mrs. Haze though the dining room when, beyond it, there came a sudden burst of greenery, ”the piazza,” sang out my leader, and then, without the least warning, a blue sea-wave swelled under my heart and, from a mat in a pool of sun, half-naked, kneeling, turning about on her knees, there was my Riviera love peering at me over dark glasses. It was the same...
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The Dharma Bums (Jack Kerouac)
…the reading at Gallery Six that night, which was, among other important things, the night of the birth of the San Francisco Poetry Renaissance. Everyone was there. It was a mad night. And I was the one who got things jumping by going around col-lecting dimes and quarters from the rather stiff audience standing around in the gallery and coming back with three huge gallon jugs of...
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The Dharma Bums (Jack Kerouac)
But as they stood and sat around I saw that he was the only one who didn’t look like a poet, though poet he was indeed. The other poets were either hornrimmed intellectual hepcats with wild black hair like Alvah Goldbook, or delicate pale handsome poets like Ike O’Shay (in a suit), or out-of-this-world genteel-looking Renaissance Italians like Francis DaPavia (who looks like a...
