Están moviéndose lentamente, escuchando el pulso del mundo.
And we’ll dance like cancer survivors - like we’re grateful simply to be alive.
I fall in love with things more easily in the rain.
Things that could destroy me.
Cigarettes. Red-lipped girls. Champagne. Disappearing.
It’s just something about the way the world looks when the sky gives up.
Your redwinelips left smudges I’m still finding, months later.
Hmmm. This is difficult. TS Eliot. ee cummings. They both taught me what is great about poetry. Michael Ondaatje, for what is vulnerable. Gregory Sherl and Richard Siken, for being brave and bare. Anne Carson, for being intelligent and humble. Sylvia Plath, for being a true technician. Ted Hughes, for being clever yet honest. Thomas Hardy, for grieving. Dan Stephensen, for being different and beautiful.
I found Middlesex overhyped and dismissive in its treating of the main character, and I despised Maidenhead. Otherwise everything on that list was enjoyable - especially White Oleander.
I have chomped through six books this last month:
- The Anatomy of Being, Shinji Moon
- 1984, George Orwell
- Maidenhead, Tamara Faith Berger
- Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, Haruki Murakami
- White Oleander, Janet Finch
- Middlesex, Jeffrey Eugenides
I am starting off February with The Cat’s Table, Michael Ondaatje.