Sep 3, 2022
'I' is only a convenient term for somebody who has no real being.
Virginia Woolf, A room of one’s own
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'I' is only a convenient term for somebody who has no real being.
Virginia Woolf, A room of one’s own
It would be a thousand pities if women wrote like men, or lived like men, or looked like men, for if two sexes are quite inadequate, considering the vastness and variety of the world, how should we manage with one only?
Virginia Woolf, A room of one’s own
When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even of a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet, of some mute and inglorious Jane Austen, some Emily Brontë who dashed her brains out on the moor or mopped and mowed about the highways crazed with the torture that her gift had put her to. Indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without singing them, was often a woman.
Virginia Woolf, A room of one’s own
Habiéndome convertido en súper gato, no debía aficionarme al modo de vivir de Mikeko y Kuro. Me sentía con ánimos para criticar ideas, palabras y acciones de los hombres con la misma o parecida altanería humana. No me faltaban razones para ello.
- Natsume Soseki, Yo el gato.
When you sit down to read me Put your hands on your eyes Tell me, have you ever seen a cloud laugh Fragrance coming from a flash of lightning Sprouting in the courtyard, Has the sea ever stepped into the folds of a dress to drown? If you sit down to read me Then don’t look at the shadows Don’t look at ash from dying embers because with these hands Heat at the heart of flames turns into words. My lips grant words To dead visions. Hearing my footfall The sails of boats put on desires and journeys, But who am I? Eyes Or deserts, cheerless winds, Bodies with the rusting honour still clinging on My steps in the wild swamps. Wounds laugh. Reading me If the eye placed on your hand drifts and runs Then you may laugh.
Kishwar Naheed, trad. Asif Farrukhi. At: A two-brick room, p. 122
Los darwinistas dirán que algo llamado evolución la ha forzado a ser así. La ciencia olvida que cuando la nada explotó, como un jarrón, todos los pedazos quedaron signados con un tamaño, una forma y una función. Todos los pedazos, si se ponen uno al lado del otro, volverán a coincidir. La forma de los linderos entre ellos no se dio de una forma práctica, sino de una forma creativa y sensible. Pues el mundo es uno solo; cada cual decide cómo adaptarse a él.
Gabriela Arciénagas, Blatta
El arte no tiene influencia sobre la acción. Aniquila el deseo de actuar. Es soberbiamente estéril. Los libros que el mundo llama inmorales son libros que muestran al mundo su propia vergüenza. Eso es todo.
Óscar Wilde, El retrato de Dorian Gray
Las cosas de las que uno está absolutamente seguro nunca son verdad. Existen la fatalidad de la Fe y la lección del Romance.
Óscar Wilde, El retrato de Dorian Gray