Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous, By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,– Richard iii


From Hemingway and Gellhorn:

I know there are two people in me, but the least strong the least demanding, is the one that attaches itself to another human being…Since I was a child people have wanted to possess me. And because our life is so badly managed, I turn upon you, with resentment and bitterness, because you bring it neither order nor tranquility, because you do not make the best of it, either materially or morally, because your discontent is ever present, like a restless dog wandering through the room.

Today’s sentences

Above the fray of techs, in the harsh laboratory light, Ju, in a lab coat and comfortable shoes, paced the catwalk talking with Ben about the gruesome remains being examined on the floor.

He admitted that it was pretty trite but how else to describe the laughter next door other than maniacal.

Ju examined the silver, some tarnished and ancient, some shiny and new that his son poured from a brown paper bag onto the dining room table.

Through the silver sage and coyote brush the madrone, peeling bark revealing the lean muscled trunk, rose.

If he had…if he had been stronger, smarter, something, she wouldn’t be propped up against the boulder, ants floating across her bloodless face.


Me and Brigitte (Bardot)” by Brigit Kelly Young


Brigitte Bardot 1955

Image by dovima_is_devine_II via Flickr

When I met Brigitte Bardot she was twenty-six and firm as ice. She wore a gingham dress, navy blue and off-white, and it sashayed off her calves as she moved toward me to extend a tiny tanned hand with nails filed into ten sharp-edged squares. “Hello Brigitte,” I said. “I’m Brigit.” My nails were different lengths, some nibbled off.

“Brigit I am so beautiful,” she said right away. “It is not just the layout of my face,” she began, “but the way it pouts and slides like a serpent into the crotch of your pants.” Brigitte held a cigarette in one hand and swigged it like a Guinness, her head thrown slightly back. “It is the way I hold it. Like my face is the Sphinx of Egypt, hard in place, never letting loose for,” with her cigarette-free hand she flicked her honey hair beyond her shoulder and formed an angry smile, “even a moment.” She bowed her head. Hairs flitted off her lips as she spoke. “It is nice to meet with you.”

In a fisherman’s attitude

The man was apparently fishing; or at least was fixed in a fisherman’s attitude with more than a fisherman’s immobility. March was able to examine the man almost as if he had been a statue for some minutes before the statue spoke. He was a tall, fair man, cadaverous, and a little lackadaisical, with heavy eyelids and a highbridged nose. When his face was shaded with his wide white hat, his light mustache and lithe figure gave him a look of youth. But the Panama lay on the moss beside him; and the spectator could see that his brow was prematurely bald; and this, combined with a certain hollowness about the eyes, had an air of headwork and even headache. But the most curious thing about him, realized after a short scrutiny, was that, though he looked like a fisherman, he was not fishing.

Gilbert Keith Chesterton » The Man Who Knew Too Much » Chapter 1

In time of silver rain

Langston Hughes

Image via Wikipedia

In time of silver rain

The earth puts forth new life again,

Green grasses grow

And flowers lift their heads,

And over all the plain

The wonder spreads

Of Life,

Of Life,

Of life!

In time of silver rain

The butterflies lift silken wings

To catch a rainbow cry,

And trees put forth new leaves to sing

In joy beneath the sky

As down the roadway

Passing boys and girls

Go singing, too,

In time of silver rain When spring

And life

Are new.

Langston Hughes

To Beck wherever you are

There was cold sunlight outside the window. He wondered if he would die. You could die just the same on a sunny day.

James Joyce — A Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man » Chapter 1

A Winter’s Night Poem

Silvia Plath — 1963

Virginia Woolf Night and Day

Portrait of Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)

Image via Wikipedia

Virginia Woolf » Night and Day » Chapter 1

It was a Sunday evening in October, and in common with many other young ladies of her class, Katharine Hilbery was pouring out tea. Perhaps a fifth part of her mind was thus occupied, and the remaining parts leapt over the little barrier of day which interposed between Monday morning and this rather subdued moment, and played with the things one does voluntarily and normally in the daylight. But although she was silent, she was evidently mistress of a situation which was familiar enough to her, and inclined to let it take its way for the six hundredth time, perhaps, without bringing into play any of her unoccupied faculties. A single glance was enough to show that Mrs. Hilbery was so rich in the gifts which make tea-parties of elderly distinguished people successful, that she scarcely needed any help from her daughter, provided that the tiresome business of teacups and bread and butter was discharged for her.