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Vlad and Vera catching butterflies. Cue *aww* chorus. 

Vlad and Vera catching butterflies. Cue *aww* chorus. 

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"In this love you are like a knife, with which I explore myself."

Franz Kafka, Letter to Milena Jesenská (via goodupholstery)

Full quote: Auch ist das vielleicht nicht eigentlich Liebe, wenn ich sage, daß Du mir das Liebste bist; Liebe ist, daß Du mir das Messer bist, mit dem ich in mir wühle.

A more accurate translation would be one in which it’s not “in this love”, but rather love in general. 

(Source: catacombes, via annafuckingkarina)

Tags: kafka lit eros
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"

Was ist der Mensch, der gepriesene Halbgott! Ermangeln ihm nicht eben da die Kräfte, wo er sie am nötigsten braucht? Und wenn er in Freude sich aufschwingt, oder im Leiden versinkt, wird er nicht in beiden eben da aufgehalten, eben da zu dem stumpfen kalten Bewußtsein wieder zurückgebracht, da er sich in der Fülle des Unendlichen zu verlieren sehnte?

[What is Man, that vaunted demigod? Is he not lacking strength precisely there where he needs it most? And when he soars in pleasure or sinks into suffering, is he not in both cases stopped precisely there, brought back to dulled, cold consciousness precisely there when he longed to lose himself in the abundance of the infinite?]

"

Goethe, Die Leiden des jungen Werthers, am 6. Dezember.

My trans. 

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Let me just geek out for a second here. Seems fitting that the spoils of my own translating go to support Moncrieff.

Let me just geek out for a second here. Seems fitting that the spoils of my own translating go to support Moncrieff.

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"For what we believe to be our love, or our jealousy, is not one single passion, continuous and indivisible. They are composed of an infinity of successive lives, of different jealousies, which are ephemeral but by their uninterrupted multitude give the impression of continuity, the illusion of unity."

Proust, Swann’s Way

Part 2 in my long campaign to wage war on my Heidegger professor via Proust. We’ll see. 

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"

On Falling In Love

How did it come about? He had seen her hundreds of times; but one evening he saw her in a certain light. As she talked to a friend he saw how she had a certain way of tossing her head to one side with a saucy laugh, and a certain way of raising her hand– a hand by no means particularly tiny or delicately girlish– to smooth her hair at the back, letting her sleeve of fine white gauze slide away from her elbow. He heard her pronounce some word in a certain way, some quite insignificant word, but with a certain warm timbre in her voice. And his heart was seized by a rapture far more intense than the rapture he had sometimes felt earlier…


That evening her image remained imprinted on his mind: her thick blond tresses, her rather narrowly cut laughing blue eyes, the delicate hint of freckles across the bridge of her nose. The timbre of her voice haunted him and he could not sleep; he tried softly to imitate the particular way she had pronounced that insignificant word, and a tremor ran through him as he did so. He knew from experience that this was love. And he knew only too well that love would cost him much pain, distress and humiliation; he knew also that it destroys the lover’s peace of mind, flooding his heart with music and leaving him no time to form and shape his experience, to recollect it in tranquility and forge it into a whole. Nevertheless he accepted this love with joy, abandoning himself to it utterly and nourishing it with all the strength of his spirit; for he knew that it would enrich him and make him more fully alive — and he longed to be enriched and more fully alive, rather than to recollect things in tranquility and forge them into a whole …

"

— Mann, Tonio Kroeger

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David Foster Wallace on a desert island, via http://thefloatinglibrary.com/

David Foster Wallace on a desert island, via http://thefloatinglibrary.com/

Tags: DFW lit cartoon
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"

Am 10. Mai

Eine wunderbare Heiterkeit hat meine ganze Seele eingenommen, gleich den süßen Frühlingsmorgen, die ich mit ganzem Herzen genieße. Ich bin allein und freue mich meines Lebens in dieser Gegend, die für solche Seelen geschaffen ist wie die meine. Ich bin so glücklich, mein Bester, so ganz in dem Gefühle von ruhigem Dasein versunken, dass meine Kunst darunter leidet. Ich könnte jetzt nicht zeichnen, nicht einen Strich, und bin nie ein größerer Maler gewesen als in diesen Augenblicken. Wenn das liebe Tal um mich dampft und die hohe Sonne an der Oberfläche der undurchdringlichen Finsternis meines Waldes ruht und nur einzelne Strahlen sich in das innere Heiligtum stehlen, ich dann im hohen Grase am fallenden Bache liege und näher an der Erde tausend mannigfaltige Gräschen mir merkwürdig werden; wenn ich das Wimmeln der kleinen Welt zwischen Halmen, die unzähligen, unergründlichen Gestalten der Würmchen, der Mückchen näher an meinem Herzen fühle, und fühle die Gegenwart des Allmächtigen, der uns nach seinem Bilde schuf, das Wehen des All-Liebenden, der uns in ewiger Wonne schwebend trägt und erhält; mein Freund! wenn´s dann um meine Augen dämmert und die Welt um mich her und der Himmel ganz in meiner Seele ruhn wie die Gestalt einer Geliebten – dann sehne ich mich oft und denke: ach könntest du das wieder ausdrücken, könntest du dem Papiere das einhauchen, was so voll, so warm in dir lebt; dass es würde der Spiegel deiner Seele, wie deine Seele ist der Spiegel des unendlichen Gottes! – Mein Freund – Aber ich gehe darüber zugrunde, ich erliege unter der Gewalt der Herrlichkeit dieser Erscheinungen.

"

Die Leiden des jungen Werther - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (via wearediamonds)

One of my favorite passages. Is it ironic? Do I care?

Ach, koenntest Du das wieder ausdruecken, koenntest Du dem Papier das einhauchen, was so voll, so warm in dir lebt… aber ich gehe darueber zugrunde…

Photoset

via floatinglibrary. Disagree quite a bit with a lot of the info/claims made, but extremely fascinating nonetheless. 

Tags: charts lit
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"I rent some rooms in a house near the depot. I rarely leave them, too. When you work at home, fellow alums, discipline is the supreme virtue. Suicidal self-loathing lurks behind every coffee break. Activities must be expertly scheduled, from shopping to showers to panic attacks. Meanwhile I must make time to pine for Gwendolyn, decamped three years this June, the month we were to wed."

Sam Lipsyte, Home Land

Courtesy of Sineokov’s Floating Library. I was reading Geoff Dyer’s review of Lipsyte’s most recent novel, The Ask. Much as I hate Dyer, it looks like an intriguing book—something along the lines of a(n even more) contemporary Don DeLillo.