hey, i see that you liked my summer reading list =) please recommend some of your favorites, if you would be so kind!
yeah it sounded interesting! have you read any amy hempel? she’s my favourite of all time, her stories are absolutely the most beautiful things ever. Also the history of love by nicole krauss, if you haven’t read it, that’s a really lovely book x
What’s coming is a million new reasons not to live your life. You can deny your possibility to succeed and blame it on something else. You can fight against everything… everything you pretend keeps you down. You can live Kierkegaard’s inauthentic life. Or you can make what Kierkegaard called your Leap of Faith, where you stop living as a reaction to circumstances and start living as a force for what you say should be.
What’s coming is a million new reasons to go ahead.
“‘He is not heroic, he is aware that modern life is full of nondescript melancholy, of discomfort, of queer relationships which beget emotions that are half-ludicrous and yet painful and that an inconclusive ending for all these impulses is much more usual than anything extreme.’”—Virginia Woolf on the short stories of Anton Chekhov
“the novel: “some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in its best chosen language.”— Northanger Abbey (Jane Austen)
“And one by one the nights between our separated cities are joined to the night that unites us.”
The taste of your mouth and the color of your skin, skin, mouth, fruit of these swift days, tell me, were they always beside you through years and journeys and moons and suns and earth and weeping and rain and joy or is it only now that they come from your roots, only as water brings to the dry earth burgeonings that it did not know, or as to the lips of the forgotten jug the taste of the earth rises in the water?
I don't know, don't tell me, you don't know. Nobody knows these things. But bringing all my senses close to the light of your skin, you disappear, you melt like the acid aroma of a fruit and the heat of a road, and the smell of corn being stripped, the honeysuckle of the pure afternoon, the names of the dusty earth, the infinite perfume of our country: magnolia and thicket, blood and flour, the gallop of horses, the village's dusty moon, newborn bread: ah from your skin everything comes back to my mouth, comes back to my heart, comes back to my body, and with you I become again the earth that you are: you are deep spring in me: in you I know again how I am born.
Years of yours that I should have felt growing near me like clusters until you had seen how the sun and the earth had destined you for my hands of stone, until grape by grape you had made the wine sing in my veins. The wind or the horse swerving were able to make me pass through your childhood, you have seen the same sky each day, the same dark winter mud, the endless branching of the plum trees and their dark-purple sweetness. Only a few miles of night, the drenched distances of the country dawn, a handful of earth separated us, the transparent walls that we did not cross, so that life, afterward, could put all the seas and the earth between us, and we could come together in spite of space, step by step seeking each other, from one ocean to another, until I saw that the sky was aflame and your hair was flying in the light and you came to my kisses with the fire of an unchained meteor and as you melted in my blood, the sweetness of the wild plum of our childhood I received in my mouth, and I clutched you to my breast as if I were regaining earth and life.
My wild girl, we have had to regain time and march backward, in the distance of our lives, kiss after kiss, gathering from one place what we gave without joy, discovering in another the secret road that gradually brought your feet close to mine, and so beneath my mouth you see again the unfulfilled plant of your life putting out its roots toward my heart that was waiting for you. And one by one the nights between our separated cities are joined to the night that unites us. The light of each day, its flame or its repose, they deliver to us, taking them from time, and so our treasure is disinterred in shadow or light, and so our kisses kiss life: all love is enclosed in our love: all thirst ends in our embrace. Here we are at last face to face, we have met, we have lost nothing. We have felt each other lip to lip, we have changed a thousand times between us death and life, all that we were bringing like dead medals we threw to the bottom of the sea, all that we learned was of no use to us: we begin again,
we end again death and life. And here we survive, pure, with the purity that we created, broader than the earth that could not lead us astray, eternal as the fire that will burn as long as life endures.
When I reached here my hand stops. Someone asks: "Tell me, why, like waves on a single coast, do your words endlessly go and return to her body? Is she the only form that you love?" And I answer: "My hands never tire of her, my kisses do not rest, why should I withdraw the words that repeat the trace of her beloved contact, words that close, uselessly holding like water in a net the surface and the temperature of the purest wave of life?" And, love, your body is not only the rose that in shadow or moonlight rises, it is not only movement or burning, act of blood or petal of fire, but to me you have brought my territory, the clay of my childhood, the waves of oats, the round skin of the dark fruit that I tore from the forest, aroma of wood and apples, color of hidden water where secret fruits and deep leaves fall. Oh love, your body rises like the pure line of a goblet
from the earth that knows me and when my senses found you you throbbed as though within you rain and seeds were falling. Ah let them tell me how I could abolish you and let my hands without your form tear the fire from my words. My gentle one, rest your body in these lines that owe you more than you give me through your touch, live in these words and repeat in them the sweetness and the fire, tremble amid their syllables, sleep in my name as you have slept upon my heart, and so tomorrow my words will keep the hollow of your form and he who hears them one day will receive a gust of wheat and poppies; the body of love will still be breathing upon earth!
Thread of wheat and water, of crystal or of fire, word and night, work and anger, shadow and tenderness, little by little you have sewn it all into my threadbare pockets, and not only in the tremorous zone in which love and martyrdom are twins like two fire bells, did you wait for me, my love, but in the tiniest sweet duties. The golden oil of Italy made your nimbus, saint of kitchen and sewing, and your tiny coquetry, that tarried so long at the mirror, with your hands that have petals that jasmine would envy, washed the dishes and my clothes, disinfected wounds. My love, to my life you came prepared as a poppy and as a guerrilla fighter: silken is the splendor that I stroke with the hunger and thirst that I brought to this world only for you, and behind the silk the girl of iron who will fight at my side. Love, love, here we are. Silk and metal, come close to my mouth.
And because Love fights not only in its burning agriculture but in the mouths of men and women, I shall end up by attacking those who between my breast and your fragrance try to interpose their dark foot. They will tell you nothing worse about me, my love, than what I told you. I lived in the meadows before I knew you and I did not wait for love but lay in ambush and jumped upon the rose.
What more can they tell you? I am not good or bad, just a man, and they will then add the danger of my life, which you know and which with your passion you have shared. Well, this danger is danger of love, of complete love toward all of life, toward all lives, and if this love brings death or prison, I am sure that your big eyes, as when I kiss them, will then close with pride, with double pride, my love, with your pride and mine. But toward my ears they will first come to undermine the tower of the sweet and harsh love that binds us, and they will say: "That one that you love is no woman for you, why do you love her? I think you could find one more beautiful, more serious, more profound, more other, you understand, look at her how flighty, and what a head she has, and look at her how she dresses and so on and on." And I in these lines say: thus I love you, love, love, thus I love you, thus as you dress and as your hair lifts up and as your mouth smiles,
light as the water from the spring upon the pure stones, thus I love you, beloved. Of bread I do not ask that it teach me but that it not fail me during each day of life. I know nothing of light, where it comes from or where it goes, I only want light to light, I do not ask explanations of the night, I wait for it and it envelops me, and thus you are, bread and light and shadow. You came into my life with what you brought, I waited for you, made of light and bread and shadow, and thus I need you, thus I love you, and all those who want to hear tomorrow what I shall not tell them, let them read it here, and let them retreat today because it's too early for these arguments. Tomorrow we shall give them only a leaf from the tree of our love, a leaf that will fall upon the earth as if our lips had made it, like a kiss that falls from our invincible heights to show the fire and the tenderness of a true love.