The heating system was a farce, depending as it did on registers in the floor wherefrom the tepid exhalations of a throbbing and groaning basement furnace were transmitted to the rooms with the faintness of a moribund’s last breath.
In this wrought-iron world of criss-cross cause and effect, could it be that the hidden throb I stole from them did not affect their future?
Blue evenings in Berlin, the corner chestnut in flower, light-headedness, poverty, love, the tangerine tinge of premature shoplights, and an animal aching yearn for the still fresh reek of Russia...
And in the meantime the rain had become a voluptuous shower.
The determinate scheme by stripping the sunrise of it’s surprise would erase all sunrays.
What further concentration is needed, what added intensity must one’s gaze attain, for the brain to enslave the visual image of a person?
One of the functions of all my novels is to prove that the novel in general does not exist.
Everything he said should be followed by a big sic.
Only experts, for experts, should probe a mind’s misery.
Now the colored pencils in more detail.
Thus a man looking through a tremendous telescope does not see the cirri of an Indian summer above his charmed orchard, but does see, as my regretted colleague, the late Professor Alexander Ivanchenko, twice saw, the swarming of hesperozoa in a humid valley of the planet Venus.
Here speaks Professor – ′ There followed a preposterous little explosion. ‘I conduct the classes in Russian. Mrs Fire, who is now working at the library part-time –.
I was proceeding slowly one afternoon through torrents of rain and kept seeing that red ghost swimming and shivering with lust in my mirror, when presently the deluge dwindled to a patter, and then was suspended altogether.
As she began losing track of herself, she though it proper to inform a series of receding Lucettes – telling them to pass it on and on in a trick-crystal regression – that what death amounted to was only a more complete assortment of the infinite fractions of solitude.
I want pure colors, melting clouds, accurately drawn details, a sunburst above a receding road with the light reflected in furrows and ruts, after rain. And no girls... There is one subject which I am emphatically opposed to: any kind of representation of a little girl.
Every limit presupposes something beyond it.
I tore apart the fantasies of Poe, And dealt with childhood memories of strange Nacreous gleams beyond the adults’ range.
Since I sometimes won the race between my fancy and nature’s reality, the deception was bearable. Unbearable pain began when chance entered the fray and deprived me of the smile meant for me.
All the trees in the world are journeying somewhere. Perpetual pilgrimage.
There are certain trifles I do not forgive. Not having read the required book. Having read it like an idiot.” – John Shade.