The book I didn't read last night
It left me uneasy on my bed, the many times I said to myself I'd start it, it's like the many times I promised myself to wake up early in the mornings and start jogging but never did. What is that keeps me away from my own interests? why does it happen? I feel I can find refuge in my philosophy, books, and art but is it refuge what my mind wants? does it want to escape or just want to stay focused on this reality that is overwhelmingly exhausting. I have to admit I often am afraid of getting lost in "my world" that I lose track of everything I need to do that then I go through the days, unfulfilled, not at my highest potential even though I know I am capable of much more. Is it depression? spring is here again and with it, its smell and feeling but why don't I find solace in this?
Sigmund Freud, letter to Romain Rolland "A Disturbance of Memory on the Acropolis"
“An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says a hard thing in a simple way.” ― Charles Bukowski August 16, 1920 – March 9, 1994
Il Postino (1994)
Clarice Lispector, The Stream of Life
Louise Glück, Averno
Fyodor Dostoyevsky, White Nights
François-René de Chateaubriand (Mémoires d'Outre-Tombe)
Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal
Richard Jackson, Retrievals
Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet
Stefan Zweig, Letter from an Unknown Woman: The Fowler Snared
“Poetry is an awareness of the world, a particular way of relating to reality.” ― Andrei Tarkovsky, Sculpting in Time
"Intellectual despair results in neither weakness nor dreams, but in violence. It is only a matter of knowing how to give vent to one's rage; whether one only wants to wander like madmen around prisons, or whether one wants to overturn them."
- Georges Bataille
Raymond Queneau