drowninglessons: (Default)
I do not mean the symbol
of love, a candy shape
to decorate cakes with,
the heart that is supposed
to belong or break;

I mean this lump of muscle
that contracts like a flayed biceps,
purple-blue, with its skin of suet,
its skin of gristle, this isolate,
this caved hermit, unshelled
turtle, this one lungful of blood,
no happy plateful.

All hearts float in their own
deep oceans of no light,
wetblack and glimmering,
their four mouths gulping like fish.
Hearts are said to pound:
this is to be expected, the heart’s
regular struggle against being drowned.

But most hearts say, I want, I want,
I want, I want. My heart
is more duplicitous,
though to twin as I once thought.
It says, I want, I don’t want, I
want, and then a pause.
It forces me to listen,

and at night it is the infra-red
third eye that remains open
while the other two are sleeping
but refuses to say what it has seen.

It is a constant pestering
in my ears, a caught moth, limping drum,
a child’s fist beating
itself against the bedsprings:
I want, I don’t want.
How can one live with such a heart?

Long ago I gave up singing
to it, it will never be satisfied or lulled.
One night I will say to it:
Heart, be still,
and it will.

Margaret Atwood
drowninglessons: (Default)
[...]For some time he had felt the slight change in his house; and those changes in what he had deemed unchangeable were so many slight shocks to his boyish conception of the world. The ambition which he felt astir at times in the darkness of his soul sought no outlet. A dusk like that of the outer world obscured his mind as he heard the mare's hoofs clattering along the tramtrack on the Rock Road and the great can swaying and rattling behind him.
He returned to Mercedes and, as he brooded upon her image, a strange unrest crept into his blood. Sometimes a fever gathered within him and led him to rove alone in the evening along the quiet avenue. The peace of the gardens and the kindly lights in the windows poured a tender influence into his restless heart. The noise of children at play annoyed him and their silly voices made him feel, even more keenly than he had felt at Clongowes, that he was different from others. He did not want to play. He wanted to meet in the real world the unsubstantial image which his soul so constantly beheld. He did not know where to seek it or how, but a premonition which led him on told him that this image would, without any overt act of his, encounter him. They would meet quietly as if they had known each other and had made their tryst, perhaps at one of the gates or in some more secret place. They would be alone, surrounded by darkness and silence: and in that moment of supreme tenderness he would be transfigured. He would fade into something impalpable under her eyes and then in a moment he would be transfigured. Weakness and timidity and inexperience would fall from him in that magic moment.

James Joyce, A portrait of the artist as a young man.


Jul. 17th, 2015 03:16 pm
drowninglessons: (Default)
[...]Pues nada hay más necio que tratar seriamente de la necedad , ni nada hay más divertido que tratar en broma aquello que nadie pensaría que lo fuera.

[...]Siempre se ha permitido a los ingenios cierta libertad para burlarse impunemente de las cosas humanas con tal de que no se llegue a lo silencioso. Admiro grandemente la delicadeza de los oídos de nuestros tiempos, que no pueden escuchar mas que títulos aduladores. [...] Pero pregunto yo: quien tiende a corregir las costumbres de los hombres sin atacar a personas determinadas , ¿Lo hace por el placer de morder, o por advertir y enseñar? ¿Cuántas veces no me he reprendido a mí mismo mi conducta? Por otra parte, cuando la sátira no omite ninguna clase ni estado, no puede decirse que vaya contra ningún individuo, sino contra todos. Por lo tanto, si alguien se siente herido y grita, o es que su consciencia lo acusa, o teme ser reconocido como culpable.

Erasmo de Rotterdam a Tomas Moro


Jun. 17th, 2015 12:46 am
drowninglessons: (Default)
Las cosas más importantes son siempre las mas difíciles de contar. Son cosas de las que uno se avergüenza, porque las palabras las degradan. Al formular de manera verbal algo que mentalmente nos parecía ilimitado, lo reducimos a tamaño natural. Claro que no es todo, ¿verdad? Todo aquello que consideramos más importante esta siempre demasiado cerca de nuestros sentimientos y deseos más recónditos, como marcas a un tesoro que los enemigos ansiaran robarnos. Y a veces hacemos revelaciones de este tipo y nos encontramos solo con la mirada extrañada de la gente que no entiende en absoluto lo que hemos contado, ni por qué nos puede parecer mas importante como para que casi se nos quiebre la voz al contarlo. Creo que es precisamente lo peor. Que el secreto lo siga siendo, no por falta de un narrador, sino por falta de un oyente comprensivo.

Stephen King, El Cuerpo.


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