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Then  I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.

— Samuel Beckett, Molloy

(Source: Spotify)

Ah, they’ll never, they’ll never ever reach the moon,
at least not the one that we’re after;
it’s floating broken on the open sea, look out there, my friends,
and it carries no survivors.
But let’s leave these lovers wondering
why they cannot have each other

I lift—lift you five States away your glass,
Wide of this bar you never graced, where none
Ever I know came, where what work is done
Even by these men I know not, where a brass
Police-car sign peers in, wet strange cars pass,
Soiled hangs the rag of day out over this town,
A juke-box brains air where I drink alone,
The spruce barkeep sports a toupee alas—

My glass I lift at six o'clock, my darling,
As you plotted... Chinese couples shift in bed,
We shared today not even filthy weather,
Beasts in the hills their tigerish love are snarling,
Suddenly they clash, I blow my short ash red,
Grey eyes light! and we have our drink together.


-- John Berryman, Sonnet 13

But I knew that you
WIth your heart beating
And your eyes shining
Would be dreaming of me
Lying with you
On a Tuesday morning

(Source: Spotify)

blankemon:

Blow up some balloons! It’s Bob Dylan’s birthday!

blankemon:

Blow up some balloons! It’s Bob Dylan’s birthday!

Dunure

Dunure

He was trying to do that sum again, the addition and subtraction of experience - what did it come to? How did you quantify the dreams that died, the gifts you gave and were given, the promises you thought the world made and then broke, the remembered moments that still shone like pure gold, the wonderful faces, the death of the best, the laughter that turned banality into carnival, the purifying angers, the great dead minds that whispered their secrets to you in the early hours of many mornings, the bitter sweetness of family, the incorrigible contradictoriness of living? By remembering?

— William McIlvanney, The Kiln

(Source: Spotify)

She didn’t know at first what it was for, but it was definitely for something. Later, she found out what. If you were going to go out into the world, it was necessary first to understand it.

— James Robertson, And the Land Lay Still

There’s a cruel kind of poetry to the market. The big wheel spins and gyrates and makes firecracker noises, going faster and faster and throwing off anybody who can’t hold on. The market is rejecting me but I’m not blind to the cruel poetry in it. The market is phenomenal, bright as a hundred cities, turning and turning, and there are little figures everywhere trying to hold on with one hand but they’re getting thrown off into the surrounding night, the silence, the emptiness, the darkness, the basin, the crater, the pit.

— Don DeLillo, Great Jones Street

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