January 2012
131 posts
Jan 27th
1,004 notes
Jan 27th
31 notes
Jan 27th
1,183 notes
“Bien sé que hay un desencuentro entre los seres que se pierden unos a otros...”
– Clarice Lispector (via astridavila)
Jan 27th
12 notes
Jan 27th
342 notes
Jan 26th
164 notes
Jan 26th
1,895 notes
Jan 26th
47 notes
Jan 26th
20 notes
Jan 26th
1,336 notes
Jan 26th
319 notes
Jan 26th
9 notes
Jan 26th
409 notes
Jan 26th
82 notes
Jan 26th
888 notes
Jan 26th
1,151 notes
Jan 26th
25 notes
Jan 26th
234 notes
Jan 26th
48 notes
Jan 26th
58 notes
Jan 26th
153 notes
Jan 26th
361 notes
Jan 26th
90 notes
Jan 26th
1,148 notes
Jan 26th
211 notes
Jan 26th
1,293 notes
Jan 26th
1,795 notes
Jan 26th
18 notes
Jan 26th
5 notes
Jan 26th
7 notes
Jan 26th
605 notes
Jan 26th
22 notes
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...
Jan 26th
7 notes
Jan 26th
47,868 notes
Jan 26th
Jan 23rd
16 notes
Jan 23rd
17,119 notes
Jan 22nd
2 notes
Jan 21st
864 notes
Jan 21st
95 notes
“I am the twentieth century. I am the ragtime and the tango; sans-serif, clean...”
– Thomas Pynchon, V.  (via estuarios)
Jan 21st
41 notes
Jan 21st
5,529 notes
Jan 21st
3,785 notes
Jan 21st
326 notes
Jan 21st
1,147 notes
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...
Jan 21st
4 notes
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...
Jan 21st
5 notes
2 tags
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...
Jan 21st
4 notes
2 tags
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...
Jan 21st
3 notes
Jan 19th
21 notes