Gaurav Sagar > Recent Status Updates

You're better off dead than with me, she tells it and the cat seems to understand but it persists, it meows, it rubs against her hand again, but Elena still refuses because she hasn't touched a cat since before she was married, her husband never let Rita have one, not even when he found hte kitten she had hidden in a box under her bed, secretly feeding it milk.

Elena looks at him without lifting her head, straining her eyeballs up to look at him from beneath her forehead, from between her brows. Her eyelids and her cheeks hurt, but she keeps looking at him as she takes her hand from her pocket and holds out the ticket so that he can see it.

Andreas moved towards her, took her in his arms, and laid her on the sofa; she closed her eyes and sighed; gently, very gently she shook her head as if to say: just let me rest.... all I want is to rest a little... Peace, and it was good to see her fall asleep, her face sank too one side.

"I'm dancing with you into heaven, the seventh heaven of love."

That was Sokcho, always waiting, for tourists, boats, men, spring.

You enter my time, you leave it. I cannot enter or leave, why ask me? You know what it looks like and I don't. Mirrors are no use at all.

He wants her arranged just so. He wants her, arranged. He arranges to want her.

Beginnings are always more fun. True connoisseurs, however, are known to favour the stretch in between, since it's the hardest to do anything with.

All this primeness was entirely false; he felt relaxed enough to take two long drags on his cigarette and blow out a cloud of smoke (which is much more abundant and slower moving than iif inhaled) in the direction of the women.

Our youth is something hidden, a secret to those who never knew us when we were young.

You'll feel better tomorrow, my love. Go to sleep now.

There, for a few hours at least, the deep bitter knowing that you are not worth much in this world could be laid low.

She too is warming to the Pole, now that she had his testament in he hands. It so happens that she does not go in for grand, hopeless passions- not part of her constitution, evidently- but that does not mean she does not admire grad passions in others.

Scene of an empty commuter town, old newspapers blowing in the wind, dust crusted on benches and restaurants. I have long had this war inside me, which is why it doesn't affect me internally, wrote Klee.

In Wili's eyes there was now something sentimental, some sergeant-like sentimentability. It was pleasant eating like this as if at a proper table, well away from those army huts.

Every border has a terrible finality. There's a line, and that's it. And the train goes across it just as it would go across a dead bidy, or a live body. A hope is dead, the hope of being sent back once more to France and finding the eyes again and the lips belonging to the eyes, and the heart and the breast, a woman' breast that must belong to those eyes.

Now that I know I must go home, I almost want to gom to get over with it. I wake earlier than usual and look out at the wet fields, the dripping trees, the hills- which seem greener than they did when I came. I think back to this time and it seems long ago, when I used to wet the bed and worry about breaking things.

Everyone who spends time in this garden does so only in order to be in a garden, Probably she has now reached the right place at the right point in her life, for she too is spending time in her life only in order to be alive.

She can't help laughing all over again, even though she's told he joke many times now, she laughs, and others are already launghing in any case, she really does like to laugh, sometimes as a child she's gotten stuck in her laughter, that's what her father called it, getting stuck in laughter, as though her body were holding on to laughter and absolutely refusing to give it up, conculsive laughter that went on and on.

Deciding to say no more, Furlong went on out and pulled the door closed, then stood on the front step until he heard someone inside, turning the key.

Our presence made no impact on her. She was totally unrelated. In no way vulnerable, in no way able to identify. She was, as Luke said, cured.

The day was light-hearted. A wnd, slight and soft on the skin, enhanced rather than reduced the sun's warmth.

And the others? What did they know? It would be hard, however, to believe that something hitting you in the eye like this would have eluded the young's girl parents- so after lunch when I went into Hippolit to the cows, I bought the conversation around to Karol.

Bouquets of tress forming graceful curving and curling paths, the garden was rolling gently beyond the linden trees where one could sense the hidden surface of a pond- oh, the greenery dappled, sun-sparkled dew!

This was how Sevastopol remained in his memory- vernal, dusty, in the grip of a kind of lifeless, dreamy disquiet.

There is thus a radical difference between The Sleepwalkers and the other great twentieth-century "frescoes" (those of Proust, Musil, Thomas Mann, etc.): In Broch, it is continually neither of action nor of biography (a character's or family's) that provides the unity of the whole.

A path is path even in fog.

Erosion is a slow process.

No idea what is happening in the world.

It was paradoxical: being tricked by a god should have been excusable; many of the finest philosophers have forgiven themselves the same mistake. And yet at the same time it was more unforgivable than being tricked by a mortal.