wattswritten

earth monkey: diaphanous & discomposed dissimulation

Memory is a church on fire.

Sherman Alexie, “The Sin Eaters,” from The Toughest Indian in the World (via lifeinpoetry)

(via kdecember)

My first remembering is my desire not to perceive events as they are.

—Kathy Acker, I Dreamt I Was a Nymphomaniac: Imagining (via jacqueslacan)

(via kdecember)

What was it that brought me back into the world again? It was the terrible and fascinating reality of my disaster; it was the way things happened. Not that I enjoyed it; I was a self-conscious girl and I suffered a good deal from all this exposure. But the development of events on that Saturday night — that fascinated me; I felt that I had had a glimpse of the shameless, marvelous, shattering absurdity with which the plots of life, though not of fiction, are improvised. I could not take my eyes off it.

[…] And I saw him looking over at me with an expression as close to a reminiscent smile as the occasion would permit, and I knew that he had been surprised by a memory either of devotion or my little buried catastrophe. I gave him a gentle uncomprehending look in return. I am a grown-up woman now; let him unbury his own catastrophes.

—Alice Munro, An Ounce of Cure (via nineteencigarettes)

bobschofield:

Feeling disconnected from the internet lately. All the small, disposable things. I want to sink into a project for a while, and just stay there. Hold my breath and not look back. Something big. Meaty. Wake up in a cave one day and have to climb back out. Find a substantial something waving down at me from way up at the top.

theparisreview:

Herta Müller, in 2009. “I wasn’t trying to write literature, I just put it down on paper to gain a foothold, to get a grip on my life.”

theparisreview:

Herta Müller, in 2009. “I wasn’t trying to write literature, I just put it down on paper to gain a foothold, to get a grip on my life.”