For the longest time, whenever I read ‘I have eaten / the plums / that were in / the icebox,’ the image of opening a freezer compartment at the top of a refrigerator appeared in my mind. Isn’t that where the ice is kept? How hard those plums seemed! How strong the teeth of Dr. Williams!Jennifer Moxley, “This is Just to Say”
Gianni Berengo Gardin (via thememoryofacolor)
Andrew O’Hagan writes: ‘Joan Didion gave me her hand and she was so thin it felt like I was holding a butterfly’ (LRB, 7 November). A beautiful sentence, but I wondered about the simile’s plausibility. It’s been reported that Didion weighs less than eighty lbs. She’s so thin her doctors have put her on an ice cream diet to keep her mass up. A woman’s hand is said to be 0.5 per cent of her body weight. So if Didion weighs 75 lbs, her hand probably weighs about six ounces. The world’s heaviest butterfly, the female Queen Victorian Birdwing, weighs about two grams. There are about 28 grams in an ounce, and Joan Didion’s hand probably weighs about the same as holding 86 female Queen Victoria Birdwings. It would be difficult to hold them all in your hand because each one has a wingspan of 18 centimetres. The smallest butterfly in the world is the North American Pygmy Blue and you’d probably need thousands of them to tip the scales against one of Didion’s fingers. None of this is to detract from the loveliness of O’Hagan’s sentence. We tell ourselves stories in order to live.Penny Cartwright, letter to the London Review of Books, 21 November 2013 (via une)
In autumn the wind blowing across a lake causes the water to turn over, so that the warm surface layer and the cold deep layer rotate, switching places. It’s as if the part of the lake heated by summer needs to hide before winter comes and the cold is willing to sacrifice itself to ice.
And I think this is what happens with me in the fall: I’m caught somewhere in-between, everything churning, waiting for the warmth to settle deep in me. And the cold to shelter me.
"Every book is begun on a blank page at the end of another book, sometimes a book you wrote and sometimes a book by someone else. This is literature’s great secret."
- Dror Burstein, Netanya (trans. Todd Hasak-Lowy)
How many faces, how many bodies can you recognize, with your eyes closed, only by touching them? Have you ever closed your eyes and acted unconsciously? Or loved someone so blindly, you could almost feel their energy in a dark room and be moved by the powerful touch of their ideas?Jean Baudrillard, Journal, 1981 (via sirilaf)
Suddenly I had a flash of insight: I am a monster, I realized, a monster that wants to stalk through the woods, free and alone, and cannot even bear so much as the touch of a branch on its skin.Marlen Haushofer, The Loft (via batarde)
Even if I say sun & moon & stars I refer to things that happen to me.Alejandra Pizarnik