@svdaliza-blog / svdaliza-blog.tumblr.com

and I sat alone in this treacherous silence...
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dvkev-alentino
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antigonick
As for being yourself—why on earth should you be yourself; when instead of being yourself you can be a hundred, or a thousand, or a hundred thousand thousand, other people?

e. e. cummings, six nonlectures : i, & their son

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violentwavesofemotion-deactivat
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objetpetita

“I need solitude for my writing; not ‘like a hermit’ - that wouldn’t be enough - but like a dead man.” ― Franz Kafka, Diaries

“It is the writer’s ‘thing’, his glory and his prison, it is his solitude. Indifferent to society and transparent to it, a closed personal process, it is in no way the product of a choice or of a reflection on Literature.” ― Roland Barthes, Writing Degree Zero

“Writing is impossible without some kind of exile.” ― Julia Kristeva, A New Type of Intellectual: The Dissident

“The person who writes books must always be enveloped by a separation from others. That is one kind of solitude. It is the solitude of the author, of writing. To begin with, one must ask oneself what the silence surrounding one is — with practically every step one takes in a house, at every moment of the day, in every kind of light, whether light from outside or from lamps lit in daytime. This real, corporeal solitude becomes the inviolable silence of writing.” ― Marguerite Duras, Writing “Loneliness is necessary for pure poetry. When someone intrudes into the poet’s life (and any sudden personal contact, whether in the bed or in the heart, is an intrusion) the poet loses his or her balance for a moment, slips into being what he or she is, uses his or her poetry as one would use money or sympathy. The person who writes the poetry emerges, tentatively, like a hermit crab from a conch shell. The poet, for that instant, ceases to be a dead person.” ― Jack Spicer, After Lorca

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dearorpheus
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waxenneat
Emotions, in my experience, aren’t covered by single words. I don’t believe in ‘sadness,’ ‘joy,’ or ‘regret.’ Maybe the best proof that the language is patriarchal is that it oversimplifies feeling. I’d like to have at my disposal complicated hybrid emotions, Germanic train-car constructions like, say, ‘the happiness that attends disaster.’ Or: ‘the disappointment of sleeping with one’s fantasy.’ I’d like to show how ‘intimations of mortality brought on by aging family members’ connects with ‘the hatred of mirrors that begins in middle age.’ I’d like to have a word for ‘the sadness inspired by failing restaurants’ as well as for ‘the excitement of getting a room with a minibar.’ I’ve never had the right words to describe my life, and now that I’ve entered my story, I need them more than ever.

Jeffrey Eugenides, Middlesex

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witchstone
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blue-voids
My painting is not violent, it’s life that is violent. Even within the most beautiful landscape, in the trees, under the leaves, the insects are eating each other; violence is a part of life. We are born with a scream; we come into life with a scream and maybe love is a mosquito net between the fear of living and the fear of death.

Francis Bacon

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A most beautiful day in the woods, but there was no spirit in me to feel any elation. I’m in the Black hole again. I want to see somebody, hear somebody speak to me, look at somebody, speak to somebody in turn. I want companions. I want more than my work, than the nods of acquaintances, than this little room. Yet I dare not say what I do want.

Wallace Stevens, from a journal entry c. February 1904 featured in his Selected Letters

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