Bitter melancholy—one of my specialties—but sometimes I feel that certain of these old emotions have lost their hold. I realize they no longer have their ancient power. Good idea for a story: the Limbo of terrors which have lost their grip…
It comes out with a sardonic taste like the Blues, and before the evening was over everybody felt like whooping—and some did!
I am driven inward, feeling hollow. No rest cure in the infirmary will cure the sickness in me…
In the late 1920’s through the early 1930’s Federico García Lorca was living in Spain, devoting most of his time to script-writing for the theater group, La Baraca. It was during this period that he became friends with the Chilean diplomat … Continued
Whereas a man on the road might be seen as potentially dangerous, potentially adventurous, or potentially hapless, in all cases the discourse is one of potential. When a man steps onto the road, his journey begins. When a woman steps onto that same road, hers ends…
My brother was the first man to come for me. The first man I saw in the raw, profuse with liquor, outside a brothel in New Mexico Territory…
I am not wise. But still, I am not cruel. I have no place loving you and because I let you be my god for a while, I was in need of loving, of giving love, and not wise, nor cagey, nor – just walking around wearing my womanhood and trying to keep us all sane…
Gregory Crewdson, an American artist renown for his elaborately staged photographs of small-town life, digs into the commonplace and familiar to find images that are haunting, surreal and—most agree—profoundly unnerving.
Unhappily it pleased her to take up / with the village dog, having found neither the man / with the biggest canoe nor the man / with the keenest fishing-spear to her tastes…
Bambi? Erotica? “The local priest”? I was beside myself at what I only assumed was my great fortune.
