You are a little soul carrying around a corpse. 


Laura McPheeAnthroposcenes

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"Bring the beautiful things back in, bring your beloved belongings, your most cherished possessions, back into the space and place them in their original positions. Make sure everything is as it was before. Live as you once did; if this is not possible, live twice."

{Mary Ruefle, Some Nondescript Autumn Weekend}

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Anne Carson, Red Doc>

Anne Carson, Red Doc>


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Left: Rosalind Solomon, Birds

Right: Letter written by Emma Hauck to her husband while in a psychiatric hospital. The words ‘sweetheart come’ (Herzensschatzi komm), are written over and over filling the surface of the paper. (c. 1909)


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This is where I learned that sometimes we enter art to hide within it. It is where we go to save ourselves, where a third-person voice protects us. Just as there is, in the real landscape of Paris in Les Miserables, that small fictional street Victor Hugo provides for Jean Valjean to slip into, in which to hide from his pursuers. What was that fictional street’s name? I no longer remember. I come from Divisadero Street. Divisadero, from the Spanish word for ‘division’, the street that at one time was the dividing line between San Francisco and the fields of the Presidio. Or it might derive from the word divisar, meaning ‘to gaze at something from a distance. (There is a ‘height’ nearby called El Divisadero.) 

It is what I do with my work, I suppose. I look into the distance for those I have lost, so that I see them everywhere…where I ‘transcribe a substitution/like the accidental folds of a scarf.’ 

{Michael Ondaatje, Divisadero


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What departs at death is 19 grams (= 7/8 ounce) of you shedding a soft blue light. What remains behind is various. Within a year of the passing of Emily Dickinson’s dog Carlo (1848-1866) there were 5 other Carlos in Amherst and 2 in novels. Some centuries later workers digging the Athens metro unearthed the grave of a dog, small paws still folded, collar studded witha row of blue beads. Use a distant brush to paint thesethings. Do not redip.

{Anne Carson, “Short Talk on the Withness of the Body”}

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"The air and its light are described as ‘melted’, ‘glazed’, ‘unctuous’, ‘elastic’, ‘fermenting’, ‘contracted’, ‘distended’, ‘solidified’, ‘distilled’, ‘scattered’, ‘liquid’, ‘woven’, ‘brittle’, ‘powdery’, ‘crumbing’, ‘embalmed’, ‘congealed’, ‘gummy’, ‘flaked’, ‘squeezed’, ‘frayed’, ‘pressed’, ‘percolated’, ‘vitalised’ and even ‘burning.’"

Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, The Weather in Proust (via gravellyrun)

(via invisiblestories)

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