2020 reads

* novels and non-fiction

Eros, The Bittersweet – Anne Carson
The Immortality Key – Brian C. Muraresku
Demons – Fyodor Dostoevsky
The Labyrinth of Solitude – Octavio Paz
My Year of Rest and Relaxation – Ottessa Moshfegh
Wild Milk – Sabrina Orah Mark
Summer Solstice – Nina MacLaughlin
Wake Siren – Nina MacLaughlin
The Complete Stories – Clarice Lispector
The Complete Stories – Leonora Carrington
Grove – Esther Kinsky
Molloy – Samuel Beckett
America – Jean Baudrillard
The Symposium & The Allegory of the Cave – Plato
Boy Swallows Universe – Trent Dalton
The Obscene Madam D – Hilda Hilst
The Lover – Marguerite Duras
Multitudes – Lucy Caldwell
Year of the Monkey – Patti Smith
Gratitude – Oliver Sacks
The Plague – Albert Camus

*

2019, 2018, 2017

near & far

I don’t feel madness in my wish to bite stars, but the earth still exists. And because the first truth is in the earth and the body. If the twinkling of the stars pains me, if this distant communication is possible, it is because something almost like a star quivers within me. Here I am back at the body. Return to my body. {…} Where does music go when it’s not playing? — she asked herself. And disarmed she would answer: may they make a harp of my nerves when I die.”

 

-Clarice Lispector
Near to the Wild Heart

não é nada

There we lived for a time, a time incapable of passing, in a space one could not even think of measuring. A passing of time outside of Time, a space that knew nothing of the usual habits of real space… O futile companion of my tedium, what hours of happy disquiet seemed to be ours! Hours of ashen wit, days of spatial longing, inner centuries of outer landscapes… And we did not ask ourselves what it was for, because we took pleasure in knowing it wasn’t for anything.”

-Fernando Pessoa
The Book of Disquiet

Their conversation is like a gently wicked dance: sound meets sound, curtsies, shimmies, and retires. Another sound enters but is upstaged by still another: the two circle each other and stop. Sometimes their words move in lofty spirals; other times they take strident leaps, and all of it is punctuated with warm-pulsed laughter—like the throb of a heart made of jelly.”

-Toni Morrison
The Bluest Eye