I meant to put this piece—Katharine Smyth: Forgetting Virginia Woolf— with a short little roundup of other things. Instead, I found myself accidentally found myself writing all of these words! ( It's deeply reassuring to see public meditations on the *intoxication* of discovering Virginia Woolf... )
Impressed by Latour’s dedication, Gaillardet remarked that Latour could have been a scientist. The idea seemed almost too much for him to bear.
“I could have been a scientist,” Latour said with arch gravity. “I’ve wasted my life.”
“Oh, Bru-no!” Gaillardet said, in the way in which one might comfort a wounded bird.
“To produce one fact!” Latour sighed, and pointed a finger in the air, as though to demonstrate its indisputable solidity. There was an ache in his eyes. “Can you imagine the pleasure of producing one fact?”
I think that definition today of love—“you are my everything”—where you really see it, this complete exaltation, is in wedding vows. Have you ever noticed? I mean, it’s, “I will wipe every tear that streams down your face before you even notice it’s going down.” I think a realistic vow is “I will fuck up on a regular basis, and, on occasion, I’ll admit it.”
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breathedout-style, but I don't know how to pull out, say, this passage about, uh, scapegoating the Jewish community and retain all of the context. The context feels very important.“You must listen to me, Juana,” her mother says, believing she is speaking metaphorically. “This is the way the story ends, you understand? This is the way it always ends… Vampires are parasites and they’ll take every drop you give them.”
Better that you get the story filtered through the eyes of Juana, who perceives the violence of her household as only a child can: in half understood shadows, the sound of her mother crying, a BANG BANG BANG on the door. “The sound that hits you, as if you yourself were the door.”
timeasmymeasurekrja
