behind closed doors.
cobblestone streets, dark chocolate, breakfast any time of day, food trucks, exploring cities, coffee shops, scarves, watching snow accumulate, unexpected adventures, grapefruit, foreign languages, photography, speculoos, musicals, macarons, flat whites, reading all day, oatmeal, cardigans, typography
Qui ne sait pas peupler sa solitude ne sait pas non plus être seul dans une foule affairée. // Those who do not know how to populate their solitude are equally unable to feel alone in a bustling crowd.
Charles Baudelaire, Le Spleen de Paris, “Les foules”
The past is the present, isn’t it? It’s the future, too. We all try to lie out of that but life won’t let us.
Mary, Act 2 Sc. 2, Long Day’s Journey Into Night, Eugene O’Neill
But I suppose life has made him like that, and he can’t help it. None of us can help the things life has done to us. They’re done before you realize it, and once they’re done they make you do other things until at last everything comes between you and what you’d like to be, and you’ve lost your true self forever.
Mary, Act 2 Sc. 1, Long Day’s Journey Into Night, Eugene O’Neill
"joyous apocalypse"- Hermann Broch
Vienna, tun of the century

"joyous apocalypse"
- Hermann Broch

Vienna, tun of the century

The days of my youth, as I look back on them, seem to fly away from me in a flurry of pale repetitive scraps like those morning snow storms of used tissue paper that a train passenger sees whirling in the wake of the observation car.
Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita (Ch. 5)
The end of a trip leaves me with a sad aftertaste the same as the end of a novel. […] I do not love myself. I do not hate myself. […] When I am returning from a trip, the best part is not going through the airport or getting home, but the taxi ride in between: you’re still traveling, but not really. […] When I make lists of names, I dread the ones I forget. […] I do not explain. I do not excuse. I do not classify. I go fast. I am drawn to the brevity of English, shorter than French. I do not name the people I talk about to someone who doesn’t know them, I use, despite the trouble of it, abstract descriptions like “that friend whose parachute got tangled up with another parachute the time he jumped.” I prefer going to bed to getting up, but I prefer living to dying. I look more closely at old photographs than contemporary ones, they are smaller, and their details are more precise. […] Sometimes I realize that what I’m in the middle of saying is boring, so I just stop talking. Art that unfolds over time gives me less pleasure than art that stops it. Even if it is an odd sort of present, I thank my father and mother for having given me life. […] When I ask for directions, I am afraid I won’t be able to remember what people tell me. I am always shocked when people give me directions and they actually get me where I’m going: words become road. […] I do not write memoirs. I do not write novels. I do not write short stories. I do not write plays. I do not write poems. I do not write mysteries. I do not write science fiction. I write fragments. I do not tell stories from things I’ve read or movies I’ve seen, I describe impressions, I make judgments. The modern man I sing. […] Often, I wish it were tomorrow. […] I wonder where the dreams go that I don’t remember. I do not know what to do with my hands when they have nothing to do. […] The best day of my life may already be behind me.

Édouard Levé, Autoportrait, “When I Look at a Strawberry, I think of a Tongue”

(http://www.theparisreview.org/letters-essays/6078/when-i-look-at-a-strawberry-i-think-of-a-tongue-edouard-leve)

I think anybody who falls in love is a freak. It’s a crazy thing to do. It’s kind of like a form of socially acceptable insanity.
Her (2013)
The past is just a story we tell ourselves.
Her (2013)
Sometimes I think I have felt everything I’m ever gonna feel. And from here on out, I’m not gonna feel anything new. Just lesser versions of what I’ve already felt.
Her (2013)
Elle ne sait pas qui je suis maintenant, elle a même oublié qui j’étais. // She doesn’t know who I am now, and she’s even forgotten who I was.
Nathalie Sarraute, Enfance
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