The Shattered Notes

give me poison for death or dreams for life

[theshatterednotes]

Swedish 19th century proletarian author Maria Sandel

[derangedrhythms]

Roland Barthes, A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments, tr. Richard Howard

TEXT ID: but also from a fusion: we die together from loving each other: an open death, by dilution into the ether, a closed death of the shared grave. Engulfment is a moment of hypnosis. A suggestion functions, which commands me to swoon without killing myself. Whence, perhaps, the gentleness of the abyss: I have no responsibility here, the act (of dying) is not up to me: I entrust myself, I transmit myself (to whom? to God, to Nature, to everything, except to the other). Tristan Baudelaire Ruysbroeck

[dk-thrive]

"Human time, you know, passes like a dream."

— Kobo Abe, from “Noah’s Ark,” Beyond the Curve: Stories (Kodansha, 1992)

[a-quiet-green-agreement]

…reading books is a kind of dream sleep, you see.

– Sjón, Codex 1962: Thine Eyes Did See My Substance (A Love Story)

[theshatterednotes]

Parque Internacional la Amistad, Panama

[bluewillowmoon]

“A tender speech is combing through the willows. In a bare whisper, the elms lean. Something about the place conjures up the ancient past:”

— Claire Keegan, from Walk the Blue Fields: Stories (Grove Press, 2008)

[a-quiet-green-agreement]

But then, I suppose, when with the benefit of hindsight one begins to search one's past for such "turning points", one is apt to start seeing them everywhere.

– Kazuo Ishiguro, The Remains of the Day

[existential-celestial]

Anna Kamienska, from “Industrious Amazement: A Notebook,” translated by Clare Cavanagh in Poetry (March 2011)

[theshatterednotes]

American author Henry Dumas

[butterflypeaflowertea]

by kenneth koch

[existential-celestial]

“[…] The morn was clouded, but no shower fell, Tho’ in her lids hung the sweet tears of May;”

— John Keats, “Ode on Indolence,” in Selected Poems (Bloomsbury Poetry Classics). 

[existential-celestial]

“You notice it first as April ends and May begins, a change in the season, not exactly a warming—in fact not at all a warming—yet suddenly summer seems near, a possibility, even a promise. You pass a window, you walk to Central Park, you find yourself swimming in the colour blue: the actual light is blue, and over the course of an hour or so this blue deepens, becomes more intense even as it darkens and fades, approximates finally the blue of the glass on a clear day at Chartres, or that of the Cerenkov radiation thrown off by the fuel rods in the pools of nuclear reactors. The French called this time of day “l’heure bleue.” To the English it was “the gloaming.” The very word “gloaming” reverberates, echoes— the gloaming, the glimmer, the glitter, the glisten, the glamour—carrying in its consonants the images of houses shuttering, gardens darkening, grass-lined rivers slipping through the shadows.”

— Joan Didion, Blue Nights

[seabeck]

Draped with lichen

[thirdity]

“You write the beginning and then you go back and rewrite the beginning, and you never got off page one. It’s kind of a syndrome, and I have a rash piece of advice which is — Go on, page two, page three, and never look back. Get something finished, no matter how lousy it is. […] Perfectionists cannot get going unless they kind of do violence to their own instincts, and just blast ahead.”

— Ursula K. Le Guin, The Last Interview and Other Conversations

[thedireful]

Clarice Lispector, from Selected Cronicas

[pastperfectcontinuous]

Audre Lorde, A Burst Of Light

[theshatterednotes]

Swedish poet Helmer Grundström