Book: Goldfinch
And no matter how much I wanted to believe that there is truth behind illusions, I finally realized that there is no truth behind illusions. Because between “reality” on the one hand and the point at which reality and reason converge, there is a certain intermediate zone, an iridescent edge where beauty comes to life, where two completely different surfaces merge, are captured and give us something that life cannot give us : in this very space all art, all magic exists. And - I bet that's all love. Or, to be more precise, the intermediate zone shows us the fundamental paradox of love. Close up: A freckled hand on a black coat, an origami frog flopped to one side. A step back - and again an immortal illusion creeps in: about life is greater than life. And between them - the gap - is Pippa herself, she is both love and non-love, she is here and not here. Photos on the wall, a crumpled sock under the sofa. The moment when I reached out to remove the fluff from her hair, and she laughed and dodged me. And just as music is an internotic space, just as the stars are beautiful due to the distances between them, just as the sun at a certain angle beats a ray into a raindrop and throws a prism of light into the sky - so is the space in which I exist, where I would like to stay further, is exactly in that middle zone, where despair clashes with the purest otherness and something sublime is born.
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Viker 25-10-2021 / 09:22
And how remarkable how limp his world was without him. It's strange, I thought, jumping away from the stream of water rushing along the curb, how everything can change in just a few hours - or, rather, how strange that such a bright fragment of the past can get stuck in the present, broken, broken, but never disappeared to end. Andy was kind to me when I had no one else. And I could at least repay his mother and sister with kindness. Now I understand this, but then it did not even occur to me that I had not crawled out of my cocoon of grief and self-digging for years, and behind this anomie of mine, behind stupor, apathy, isolation and heartache, I missed many everyday, small , imperceptible manifestations of kindness; and even this very word, kindness, reminded of a way out of a coma, from the hum of sensors - into a hospital reality of voices and people.
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Viker 25-10-2021 / 09:22
But even though I understood that I was very lucky, I still did not feel either happiness or even gratitude for such luck. The feeling was that my spirit itself had changed at some chemical level: as if the acid balance in my soul had been disturbed and life had burned out of me - irreparably, irreversibly, like a frond of a coral polyp turned to stone to the very core.
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Viker 25-10-2021 / 09:22
It was worse than hopeless.
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MegaMozg 03-10-2019 / 02:09
I've been there: turn off the brain, lomyat forward.
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MegaMozg 03-10-2019 / 02:06
I love educated children. Such as you really don't.
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MegaMozg 03-10-2019 / 02:03
Somehow a burst of energy, which I cheerfully gurgled all summer, in mid-October suddenly spat me in the dreary mist, which stretched in all directions without end...
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MegaMozg 23-10-2018 / 02:02
You can look at a painting for a week and then never not to remember. You can look at a picture just a second and remember her life.
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MegaMozg 15-02-2018 / 23:06
... Great pictures and using the copies can be known, to settle in even.
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MegaMozg 15-02-2018 / 23:04
When it comes to the great masterpiece, every time you shake as shock from exposed wires. No matter how many times you grab this wire, no matter how many more people grabbed it before you. Wire-the one and the same. Hanging from the higher spheres. And discharge in one and the same.
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MegaMozg 15-02-2018 / 22:09
Well, the Dutch invented the microscope, she said. They were jewelers, polishers lenses. They wanted it to be more longer, because even the tiniest things something mean. When you see flies or insects in a still life, wilted petal, a black spot on the Apple - this means that the artist sends you a secret message. He tells you that live is short, that everything is temporary. Death in life. That's why they are called natures mortes. For all the beauty and bloom may not be able to tell at first, the little speck of rot. But worth a closer look - and here it is.
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MegaMozg 15-02-2018 / 22:08
... It is true that every great painting is really a self-portrait.
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MegaMozg 15-02-2018 / 22:07
How I was brought to this strange new life, where at night yelling drunken foreigners, and I am wearing dirty clothes and no one loves me?
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MegaMozg 02-03-2017 / 08:49
It was raining. Ran, hunched over, pedestrians. The rain beat up on the glass, rain drops appeared on the plastic lids of garbage cans at the curb. Seated at the table, in donating musty armchair, I tried to somehow ground yourself or at least be comforted by the faded silks, and the gloom of the shop, its bittersweet gloom, so like a rainy grey dark classrooms of childhood, but I sharply threw the outflow of dopamine, and I felt only pretreat something very similar to death - a sorrow which at first feel a stomach surge over the frontal bone, undead roar of darkness, from which I had fenced off.
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MegaMozg 02-03-2017 / 08:48
Is it possible to miss someone as I miss mom? To me it lacked that I wanted to die, to me its acutely, physically not enough - like air under water. I lay awake and tried to remember her all the best, capture it in your brain, never to be forgotten, but instead of birthdays and other fun in mind all the memories pop up like a few days before death she stopped me in the doorway and took the lead with a school jacket. Somehow I remember it most clearly: the knitted brow, as she held out a hand, everybody. A couple of times when I was tossing and turning from sleep to wakefulness, I suddenly jumped up in bed from her voice in my head, phrases that she once said, but I did not remember, such as "Throw me an Apple," or "I Wonder if buttons should be in front or in back?" or "How shabby life this couch!".
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MegaMozg 19-01-2017 / 13:45
