“We never stop reading, although every book comes to an end, just as we never stop living, although death is certain.”– Roberto Bolaño, Last Evenings on Earth
Happiness is always there; it is we who are absent.
I cannot walk through the suburbs in the solitude of the night without thinking that the night pleases us because it suppresses idle details, just as our memory does.
She was waiting, but she didn’t know for what. She was aware only of her solitude, and of the penetrating cold, and of a greater weight in the region of her heart.
It is the still, yellow afternoon when one is apt to get stuck in a dream if one sits very quiet.
Everything that’s lovely is but a brief, dreamy kind of delight.
Let us sculpt in hopeless silence all our dreams of speaking.
...the hour in which one is least certain of the world’s existence.
These fragments I have shored against my ruins.
We are cut, we are fallen. We are become part of that unfeeling universe that sleeps when we are at our quickest and burns red when we lie asleep.
Each person is only given so many evenings and each wasted evening is a gross violation against the natural course of your only life.
We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls.