Gaurav Sagar > Recent Status Updates

And yet there was an explanation: I hadn't noticed him before he was doused by that gush of water, and that was what I saw: the gush, the accident, and then, straight away, the encounter with Leticia, their mutual recognition; her 'Enrique!' had been so charged with personal memories that I had failed to make the connection with the 'Enrique' I knew, the owner of the guest house.

We live our lives, for the most part, blissfully unaware of all this- until something goes wrong and we realize what we have lost.

I don't believe in this island and I don't believe in happiness, or in relationships, or in children or in God.

I realized that I am smoke, that the things that define me rise as they would up a chimney, probing every crack, searching for a wellspring of light or cold, a cupola of sky to sprawl into.

Time has set its sights on us and slowly worn us down, sharpening its teeth on our bodies. I don't know what we are anymore.

Material made of spirit is the luxurious border where reality communicates with utopia.

Artforum, the happiness of whose possession still endured, anachronistically, mixed in with the sadness of dying, of leaving the world that I loved so much.

Youth was not made for pleasure, but for heroism.

I've spent the afternoon imagining that noisy reader, deciding on his features, his interests.

Without a hint of hesitation he gives spur to his, on down the hill. He does not show the least sign of turning his head even the fraction of an inch, he whistles a tune with a fair attempt at coolness. But is not that easy.

As yet there is only a dead officer and a horse come from who knows where.

But it seemed as if Drogo's existence had come to halt. The same day, same things, had repeated themselves hundred of time without taking a step forward.

I could experience only absence or presence. I am merely listing the signs of a passion, wavering between 'one day' and 'every day', as of this inventory could allow me to grasp the reality of my passion.

I felt elated. I thought I had made this discovery : that there are unexpected, constant repetitions in our behavior.

When this creature vanished, we waited in vain for the last egg to break, mine. But it never broke. Ever since then, I've taken it with me whenever I've gone. It is proof (where in fact proof is not needed) that everything I lived then was real, that that world from Dudesti-Cioplea was no childhood phantasasm.

Father came that day. I heard his voice before I was fully awake. I lifted Zizi from the floor and held her tight to my chest. I don't know why I was always afraid of him.

One of the side windows was broken, so that minuscule world wouldn't close upon itself as it should anymore. I went back into the house and occupied myself with sewing together a few patches of colored cloth. Naked, deformed, Zizi was lying face down next to me.

At dan, things emerged from their reality, as if in a drop of water. The most trivial objects, embellished with profound reality, made me quiver most painfully.

When you are travelling the thought that nobody knows you gives you a certain feeling of impunity. That wasn't case with me. The breeze carried snippets of their conversations, and I realized they were talking about me: "famous writer.... Macuto Line....he was in the newspapers...."

Everything is ready. The room looks as if it is was prepared for painting.

I told her many times that I loved her, but it never made her happy, so I finally lost the courage to tell her anymore. I lost any sense of initiative I ever had.

The electric light in the classroom, contrasting with the immensity of the darkness outside, gave us an atavistic sentiment of intimacy, of shelter, such as primitive man must have experienced in his crave. The world would become small, and it was easy to be alive.

MANIAC: This explains why so many perfectly ordinary, bored people suddenly dress themselves up as anarchists and revolutionaries- they are completely innocent, they just want to get themselves arrested so that they can have a fucking good laugh for once in their lives. Our cunning anarchists is obviously in his grave right now, pissing himself!

But where is Mentardy? Where in the world did this story come from? I would reread the text, but I confess that I am afraid. I don't want to throw it away but don't want to come upon it again either. I am going to find a good place to hide it, somewhere where it can lie hidden forever without danger of being thrown out with the newspapers or some other trash because my wife is a specialist at things like that......

I dream enormously, in demented colors. I have sensations in my dreams I never experience in reality. I wrote down hundreds of dreams over the last ten years, some of which repeated themselves convulsively, dragging me underneath the same Caudine Forks of shame and hatred and loneliness.

Officially, contradictions do not exist in the minds of the citizens in the people's democracies. Nobody dares to reveal them publicly. And yet the question of how to deal with them is posed in real life. More than others, the members of the intellectual elite are ware of this problem. They solve it becoming actors

When she realized she had lost everything, she initiated a search for the culprit. Anyone would do: her first husband, manly and unloved, who had failed to heed her whispered warning; her second husband, unmanly and much loved, who had dragged her down from Prague to a small town and kept her in a state of permanent jealousy by going through one woman after another.

There was a blind innkeeper and his sighted wife, who was the cook, and their two young daughters, who worked as waitresses & maids. This family knew that Dresden was gone. Those with eyes had seen it burn and burn, understood that they were on the edge of a desert now. Still- they had opened for business, had polished the glasses and wound the clocks and stirred the fires and waited and waited to see who would come

'Well, here we are. Mr. Pilgrim, trapped in the amber of this moment. There is no why.

He was a very good soldier- about to quit, about to find somebody to surrender to.