Under the Volcano
In silence and in darkness we loved each other and as I traced her bones with my palm I wondered what time would do to skin that was so new to me. Could I ever feel any less for this body? Why does ardour pass? Time that withers you will wither me. We will fall like ripe fruit and roll down the grass together. Dear friend, let me lie beside you watching the clouds until the earth covers us and we are gone.
Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body
History isn’t dry, it’s sticky, it can get all over your hands.
Margaret Atwood, The Robber Bride
Iron & Wine - Sodom, South Georgia
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Then very carefully she put on the dress and stepped into the pumps. This was the first time she had ever worn an evening dress. She stood for a very long time before the mirror. She was so tall that the dress came up two or three inches above her ankles—and the shoes were so short they hurt her. She stood in front of the mirror a long time, and finally decided she either looked like a sap or else she looked very beautiful. One or the other.
Carson McCullers, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter
For ordinary books are like meteors. Each of them has only one moment, a moment when it soars screaming like the phoenix, all its pages aflame. For that single moment we love them ever after, although they soon turn to ashes. With bitter resignation we sometimes wander late at night through the extinct pages that tell their stone dead messages like wooden rosary beads.
Bruno Schulz -The Book (via under-the-volcano)

bigbad-wolf:

Love and Death (Woody Allen, 1975)

When a man says he has plenty of time, he’s already snared (so how much time he has is irrelevant) and you can do whatever you like with him.
Roberto Bolaño, “Joanna Silvestri”