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“People think that only the future can be changed, but in fact, the future is continually changing the past. The past can and does change. It’s exquisitely sensitive and delicately balanced.”
Amid the swirling rapids of time’s ceaseless rush downstream to the past, it shone with a soft and lonely light—while beyond lay the vast ocean of oblivion. Every time they were wounded in the future, again and again they would return in memory to look into each other’s eyes, embraced by the darkness of that night.
The snow falling soundlessly at a fixed tempo against a grayish-white sky gradually caused him to lose all sense of time.
Surely this was a historic, decisive change, wasn’t it? From now on, people would forevermore be creatures of exhaustion, distinguished from other animals by their continual state of fatigue. Caught up in the tempo of machines and computers, their senses buffeted by constant noise, people griped about daily life with piteous intensity before entering the complete silence obtainable only by death.
My father told me I suffer from Death in Venice Syndrome, a disease he made up. It supposedly means “Growing suddenly tired of conforming to society at the onset of middle or old age and taking self-destructive actions with the intent of returning to one’s original self.” That’s me in a nutshell. lol.
Time gone feral, a flock of hours separated from its masters. This area had once been filled with people reading suspense novels and sipping piña coladas as they worked on their tans.
Every romance has one or two such feigned coincidences. And often, the beloved dimly suspects the truth.
Young people’s hearts were extremely combustible. Once lit, the flame of passion would spread with the abandon of wildfire, out of control. If the combustible portion of the other’s heart similarly caught fire, the two had to become lovers, if only to escape their misery.
encomiums
Thomas Mann, expounding on “the gulf between greatness and the masses,” wrote when Goethe died, “I clearly heard not only the laments of nymphs mourning the death of the great Pan, but also sighs of relief.” Not only Goethe but all geniuses must be, to an extent, a source of pressure on the lives of those around them.
“Your existence has punched a hole in my life. Or rather, it’s embedded deep within me.” Without realizing it, he was clutching the front of his shirt almost hard enough to tear it. In desperation, he clutched it even harder, and then he hastily smoothed out the wrinkles, staring down at his chest and hand as if concerned about the flow of blood from a bayonet wound. In the middle of their conversation, he felt stranded.
“I’m getting married soon.” “I came here to stop you.”
The composition had the vast sweep of the starry firmament, its melodies the systematic order of constellations, each one distinct and unmistakable. Absorbing the beauty of each successive note brought the satisfaction and thrill of taking in the light of star after star.
Loneliness, when it came down to it, was the awareness of your utter lack of influence in the world—knowing that you could and would have zero influence on either your contemporaries or on future generations.
gavotte
duple meter,
knew that he could not live on the latter happiness alone. Music was the foundation of his life and the sole comfort he had to offer himself. It was irreplaceable, matchless. If he went on as he was, ashamed of his feckless performances, he knew the day was coming when he could not enjoy a life filled with his and Yoko’s mutual love.
She had the bizarre sensation that the day she left Baghdad, another Yoko had somehow failed to board the plane and instead remained all this time in the Murjana Hotel, caught up in one terror incident after another.
Her desire to cast all else aside and seek peace of mind in him warred with her desire to be his peace of mind. But then, were the two so very different? When they were together, wordlessly sharing each other’s warmth, were they not fulfilling both of those roles?
“Clarity of vision is the closest wound to the sun.” He was captivated by this mysterious line from Char’s poetic wartime journal, Leaves of Hypnos.
nadir
peripatetic
Saying nothing was the final duty demanded by her love for Makino, she told herself, and tried to believe it.
For Satoshi Makino and Yoko Komine, 2011 was a year when the forces of repulsion and attraction operated in equal measure.
She had come here, after all, to mark the end of a certain period of her life . . . And yet she wanted to hold on to his love at least for the duration of this concert. Though she had been with him only three times, he was the love of her life. The music soared on. Oh, that this moment might last forever, might never end.
