I love this city she wrote in a notebook in 1947, its clean cut look, its sky, its buildings, its scientific, cruel, romantic quality.
Louise Bourgeois, 1947 (from her journal)
He explained that his art referred directly to Warhol while also pointing to the phenomenon of Reality TV, although it was difficult to glean this information from the banal images he showed me. He liked the term conceptual and used it a lot, not unlike the way Edgar used man. Anton was not a bad kid. He was just stupendously, heartbreakingly ignorant.
Siri Hustvedt, The Blazing World
Eva Besnyo, Beach at Wannsee, Berlin, 1931
When they were face-to-face, he paused just long enough for her to wrap her hand around the back of his neck, as she pulled herself away from her jagged, shining silhouette, to kiss him hard, on the mouth. Everything she ever thought, she simply threw it all away.
From my new novel
william faulkner paris review interview
Jurgen Schadeberg (Priscilla Mtimkulu, 1952)
As on a former occasion she stood…considering herself in the glass. She had been kissed only once before, by Matthew Henson, and that kiss had been neither as casual nor as disturbing as this. She was thrilled, excited and vaguely displeased. ”He is fresh, I’ll say that for him.” And subsiding into the easy chair she thought for a long time of Anthony Cross and his deep respectful ardor.
In the morning there were flowers.
Jessie Redmon Fauset
Collectionneur de papillons
In the end, one can only die for Sibylle. To live for her, my friends say, is degrading.
When one has stopped loving somebody, one feels that he has become someone else, even though he is still the same person.
Sei Shonagon (The Pillow Book of Sei Shonagon, c. 1000)