pictures of random scenes in Paris
I'm not feeling particularly wordy today. I wish I could rinse the reminisces of a letter written a year ago. Better yet, have Lawrence Durrell say it for me, from Justine:
"Lying with one's own kind, enjoying an experience, one can still keep free the part of one's mind which dwells in Plato, or gardening, or differential calculus. Sex has left the body and entered the imagination now…."
"Who invented the human heart, I wonder? Tell me, then show me the place where he was hanged."
"We have been told so often that history is indifferent, but we always take its parsimony or plenty as somehow planned; we never really listen…now on this tenebrous peninsula shaped like a plane leaf, fingers outstretched (where the winter rain crackles like straw among the rocks), I walk stiffly sheathed in wind by a sealine choked with groaning sponges: hunting for the meaning to the pattern."
"The modern novel! The grumus merdae left behind by criminals upon the scene of their misdeeds."
