There is a secret bond between slowness and memory, between speed and forgetting. Consider this utterly commonplace situation: a man is walking down the street. At a certain moment, he tries to recall something, but the recollection escapes him. Automatically he slows down. Meanwhile, a person who wants to forget a disagreeable
incident he has just lived through starts unconsciously to speed up his pace, as if he were trying to distance himself from a thing still too close to him in time.

In existential mathematics, that experience takes the form of two basic equations: the degree of slowness is directly proportion to the intensity of memory; the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgetting.

Milan Kundera, from Slowness (HarperCollins, 1996)

(via theintentionallife)

"On the shelves were the books bound in a cardboard-like material, pale, like tanned human skin, and the manuscripts were intact. In spite of the room’s having been shut up for many years, the air seemed fresher than in the rest of the house. Everything was so recent that several weeks later, when Úrsula went into the room with a pail of water and a brush to wash the floor, there was nothing for her to do. Aureliano Segundo was deep in the reading of a book. Although it had no cover and the title did not appear anywhere, the boy enjoyed the story of a woman who sat at a table and ate nothing but kernels of rice, which she picked up with a pin, and the story of the fisherman who borrowed a weight for his net from a neighbor and when he gave him a fish in payment later it had a diamond in its stomach, and the one about the lamp that fulfilled wishes and about flying carpets. Surprised, he asked Úrsula if all that was true and she answered him that it was, that many years ago the gypsies had brought magic lamps and flying mats to Macondo.

“What’s happening,” she sighed, “is that the world is slowly coming to an end and those things don’t come here any more.””

Gabriel García Márquez

(via velveteenrabbit)

“He allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.”
— Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera
“I despise the kind of book that tells you … how to make yourself happy! The first duty of philosophy is making you understand what deep shit you are in.”
— Slavoj Žižek (via blackestdespondency)

(via blackestdespondency)

“… And that wherever they might be they always remember that the past was a lie, that memory has no return, that every spring gone by could never be recovered, and that the wildest and most tenacious love was an ephemeral truth in the end.”
— One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel García Márquez
“The most intimate reactions of human beings have been so thoroughly reified that the idea of anything specific to themselves now persists only as an utterly abstract notion: personality scarcely signifies anything more than shining white teeth and freedom from body odour and emotions. The triumph of advertising in the culture industry is that consumers feel compelled to buy and use its products even though they see through them.”
“An empty space is marked off with plain wood and plain walls, so that the light drawn into it forms dim shadows within emptiness. There is nothing more. And yet, when we gaze into the darkness that gathers behind the crossbeam, around the flower vase, beneath the shelves, though we know perfectly well it is mere shadow, we are overcome with the feeling that in this small corner of the atmosphere there reigns complete and utter silence; that here in the darkness immutable tranquility holds sway. The "mysterious Orient" of which Westerners speak probably refers to the uncanny silence of these dark places. And even we as children would feel an inexpressible chill as we peered into the depths of an alcove to which the sunlight had never penetrated. Where lies the key to this mystery? Ultimately it is in the magic of shadows. Were the shadows to be banished from its corners, the alcove would in that instant revert to mere void.”

— Jun’ichirõ Tanizaki, In Praise of Shadows

kmitt:

"The False Mirror", 1928 by Rene Magritte

(via dostoyevskyreader)

metaphorformetaphor:

I love her, heart and soul. She is everything to me. And yet she is nothing like the women I dreamed of, like those ideal creatures whom I worshipped as a boy. She corresponds to nothing I had conceived out of my own depths. She is a totally new image, something foreign, something which Fate…

“All life is a dream. No one knows what he’s doing, no one knows what he wants, no one knows what he knows. We sleep our lives, eternal children of Destiny.”
— Fernando Pessoa (via blackestdespondency)

(via blackestdespondency)

“The obsession with suicide is characteristic of the man who can neither live nor die, and whose attention never swerves from this double impossibility.”
— Emil Cioran (via blackestdespondency)

(via blackestdespondency)

tarkovskymalick:

Acorns don’t cry, you know that as well as I do. That’s what fear is, thoughts distort reality. Not the other way around. 

Antichrist

“But this dark is deep:
now I warm you with my blood, listen
to this flesh.
It is far truer than poems.”
— Marina Tsvetaeva, from “Poem of the End” (translated by Elaine Feinstein)

(via applewithcinnamon)

“there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.”
— Charles Bukowski, Bluebird (via stxxz)

(via applewithcinnamon)