I am totally Joe’s Gallbladder.
Stendhal syndrome, Angel says, is a medical term. It’s when a painting, or any form of art, is so beautiful it overwhelms the viewer. It’s a form of shock. When Stendhal toured the Church of Santa Croce in Florence in 1817, he reported almost fainting from joy. People feel rapid heart palpitations. They get dizzy. Looking at great art makes you forget your own name, forget even where you’re at. It can bring on depression and physical exhaustion. Amnesia. Panic. Heart attack. Collapse.
Schlechte Erinnerungen sind besser als gar keine.
I used to think the secret to a happy ending was to bring down the curtain at the exact right time.
Wenn das Totsein erst einmal den Reiz des Neuen verloren hat, scheint ein gewisses Unbehagen an seine Stelle zu treten.
She’d married him for all the reasons she might hire a long-term employee.
Language had arrived from outer space and mated together lizards and monkeys or whatever until it had customized a host which could sustain it. That first person had been introduced to the complicated DNA sequence of proper nouns and compound verbs. Outside of language he didn’t exist. There was no method to escape. To feel anything, anymore, required ever-increasing amounts of words. Great landfills and airlifts of words. It took a mountain of talk to achieve even the tiniest insight.
Das Quietschen von Bettfedern, das Klatschen von Haut auf nackter Haut, das alles war ein biologisches Versprechen, dauerhafter als jedes Ja-Wort.
So much for the journalist and the news being mutually exclusive. Nash.
La persona a la que quieres y la persona que te quiere nunca son la misma persona.
Die Avantgarde auf allen Gebieten besteht aus den Einsamen, den Freundlosen, den Uneingeladenen. Jeglicher Fortschritt kommt von den Unbeliebten.
Everyone, he knew for a fact, was populated by billions of microbes, and not simply the flora in their digestive tracts. People played host to mites and viruses that all wanted to reproduce and continue life elsewhere. They jumped ship with every handshake. It was folly to imagine we were anything more than vessels, carting around our bossy passengers. We were nothing.
Bestenfalls ein Bewacher. Schlimmstenfalls ein Voyeur.
Consider that your soul is dropped in as an ugly rock, some raw material or a natural resource, crude oil, mineral ore. And all conflict and pain is just the abrasive that rubs us, polishes our souls, refines us, teaches and finishes us over lifetime after lifetime.
In this maze of antiques, she says, are the ghosts of everyone who has ever owned this furniture. Everyone rich and successful enough to prove it. All of their talent and intelligence and beauty outlived by decorative junk. All the success and accomplishments this furniture was supposed to represent, it’s all vanished.
Backed by the hellish glare of flames, the doctor proclaimed, “Men in general need to accept their diminished status in the world.” Against a backdrop of smoke and shouting, she added, “The impending war, for example, will be an excellent opportunity for them to earn the acclaim they crave.
You are your own favorite hobby. You’re an expert on you.
Everything you remember is wrong.
As young people, she says, we want something to slow us down and keep us trapped in one place long enough to look below the surface of the world.
I was in a mood to destroy something beautiful.