January 2012
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To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred...
– From The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry; in the translation by Katherine Woods. (x)
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You will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you never had the...
– From The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde.
(via high-delirium)
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Today. Today I woke up to discover that two of my wisdom teeth had decided, overnight, to resume their emergence. I gave questionable advice to a boy who has resolved himself in love. I read Alice Munro, I drank some coffee. I whittled down a story to its barest bones. I called a man I had not seen in two weeks. I ran to a haunt to meet a friend; we talked about earnestness and the new children...
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December 2011
9 posts
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I loved Robert Louis Stevenson’s An Apology for Idlers, but if I am allowed to march to my grave loathing a passage, it will be this one:
Books are good enough in their own way, but they are a mighty bloodless substitute for life. It seems a pity to sit, like the Lady of Shallott, peering into a mirror, with your back turned on all the bustle and glamour of reality.
Look at me, full of stabby...