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Tag Archives: love
Silence, Sadness, Perpetual Solitude
A lively swing of events rolls into place at the beginning of the novel, full of musical brilliance, unknown voices, and objects scattered across empty spaces. This is a book of wavering stars. And in this midst of it all there is a shadow of contemplation which is the shadow of the main character, Natalia, flitting in the form of text across cigarette-like pages of ash and ink, carrying all of her sensitiveness and feminine daintiness across the scenes, and, with her own private reflections, uncovers the isolated mysteries of human life beneath its whirlpool of ordinary affairs. Continue reading
Posted in Home, Rodoreda
Tagged childhood, death, family, life, literature, love, memories, poverty, reality, reflection, relationships, Rodoreda, The Time of the Doves, war
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Incarnate Memories and Foregone Love Stories
Right from the beginning that is a sense of significance in the seemingly trivial, like the falling of rain, and a glimmer of existential beauty to be found in repetition, exhaustion, and freedom from logic. If inexplicitness was a literary principle, this text would have passed with flying colours. It is a cruel master of portraying the impossible, a maestro of describing things not as they purely are but rather as what they seem to be, which involves infinite digressions on how it makes a certain character feel, which, almost inevitably, revives inner memories and sensations associated with it. Continue reading
Posted in Bombal, Home
Tagged Bombal, death, life, love, memory, nostalgia, reality, relationships, The Time of the Doves
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NEBULOSITY
Confusing. Figuring things out not by their form but by the convoluted trails of meaning formed by dense sentences, juxtaposing verses, and half-conscious dreams. This book is a forest of question marks. “I am no puzzle-maker, no wizard of chess, no physician of letters. I am only a p-poor, poor reader!” But the author lies silent. He has died. The pages are silent, but so full. And from its fullness, I am at once informed of the fact that life is hard, very hard, and that instead of shedding shy tears like a shameful dove on a solitary perch, I should simply continue with the task at hand. Continue reading
Posted in Breton, Home, My Favorite Reviews
Tagged absurdity, Breton, identity, life, literature, love, Nadja, reality, surrealism
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proustian rant on proust
As I have expected (from having seen glimpses of the book here and there in my distant past), this is one of the most beautiful texts that I have encountered, and, with every line, I feel that keen jolt of pleasure from reading which informs me of the prestige in his use of words and structure of language in the representation of the human experience. Continue reading