Under the Volcano
Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.
Cormac McCarty, The Road
This is where the story starts, in this threadbare room. The walls are exploding. The windows have turned into telescopes. Moon and stars are magnified in this room. The sun hangs over the mantelpiece. I stretch out my hand and reach the corners of the world. The world is bundled up in this room. Beyond the door, where the river is, where the roads are, we shall be. We can take the world with us when we go and sling the sun under your arm. Hurry now, it’s getting late. I don’t know if this is a happy ending but here we are let loose in open fields.
Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body

Finished Written on the Body. I can’t think of any real way to compare them but I kept thinking of Autobiography of Red, probably because I kept pausing and putting it down to take a deep breath and say, “Oh” significantly.

The fields along the train tracks are Tarkovsky dream green and this Wilco song still hasn’t gotten old.

Chocolate rabbit zombie Jesus is gonna be so stoned this Sunday. There must be clever memes floating around about this but I haven’t seen any yet.

Drinking’s funny. When I look back on it, all of our important decisions have been figured out when we were drinking. Even when we talked about having to cut back on our drinking, we’d be sitting at the kitchen table or out at the picnic table with a six-pack or whisky.
Raymond Carver, ‘Gazebo’ (via under-the-volcano)
A man in love likes to talk; a woman in love changes her ways and doesn’t want to talk. She knows, without even knowing that she knows, that after a man really understands a woman, he won’t love her anymore.
Eileen Chang, “Sealed Off”
The Easter hare has been to my desk. I think he took some ibuprofen.

The Easter hare has been to my desk. I think he took some ibuprofen.

We lay down on my floor, our backs to the day. I needed no more light than was in her touch, her fingers brushing my skin, bringing up the nerve ends. Eyes closed I began a voyage down her spine, the cobbled road of hers that brought me to a cleft and a damp valley then a deep pit to drown in. What other places are there in the world than those discovered on a lover’s body?
Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body