It’s almost Christmas.

It was a strange morning- the feeling of waking from nightmares, misty rain, slippery sidewalks, outdoor markets with pie, blunt compliments, and unexpected phone calls that left me in disbelief (and maybe slightly blushing).
Thank goodness for bravery, adventurousness (as demonstrated by Mae West) and trying new things.

Also, for discovering Marcel Proust.

“When two people part it is the one who is not in love who makes the tender speeches.”

Live life fully, because:
“I think that life would suddenly seem wonderful to us if we were threatened to die as you say. Just think of how many projects, travels, love affairs, studies, it–our life– hides from us, made invisible by our laziness which, certain of a future, delays them incessantly.”

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oh. and my GOD, Eileen Myles!

“I am always hungry and wanting to have sex. This is a fact.”

“Literature is love. I think it went like this: drawings in the cave, sounds in the cave, songs in the cave, songs about us. Later, stories about us. Part of what we always did was have sex and fight about it and break each other’s hearts. I guess there’s other kinds of love too. Great friendships. Working together. But poetry and novels are lists of our devotions. We love the feel of making the marks as the feelings are rising and falling. Living in literature and love is the best thing there is. You’re always home.”

“If passion was a substance I would say it is dark brown, and then blood red. It’s like wet grass, tons of it soaked in mud. It’s warm and it stinks like shit and it’s unaccountably and endlessly good. It’s thick and it goes on for miles and it isn’t so much deep as bottomless and it holds you in its grip, you never drown. And then it goes. That’s all you know.”

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