November 14, 2011

Why's My Bookbag (or e-reader equivalent) so Heavy?

Excerpts from Eugenides' "The Marriage Plot":
In Madeleine’s face was a stupidity Mitchell had never seen before. It was the stupidity of all normal people. It was the stupidity of the fortunate and beautiful, of everybody who got what they wanted in life and so remained unremarkable.

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In Plato’s Phaedrus, the speeches of Lysias the Sophist and of the early Socrates (before the latter makes his recantation) rest on this principle: that the lover is intolerable (by his heaviness) to the beloved.

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“The flip side of self-loathing is grandiosity,” Leonard observed. “Right,” Henry said. “So if you’re going to crack up, you want to crack up like Robert Lowell.”
Bookroom pictures:


Poet Mark Doty excerpts...Unfortunately I lost all the formatting of Mark Doty poems when getting via web so...
Tiny girl in line at the café—seven, eight?—holding her book open, pointing to the words and saying them half-aloud while her mother attends to ordering breakfast; she’s reading POMPEII…Buried Alive! with evident delight. Pleasure with a little shiver inside it. And that evening, I thought I was no longer afraid of the death’s head beneath the face of the man beneath me.

*

that spiraling like climbing the steep winding of the cathedral in Barcelona, the Sagrada Familia, stone steps built to the mathematics of a narrow seashell, feet obscured in darkness, a built night, and then in a while, many whorls up, the terrifying small balconies perched at the back of spires of conch or chestnut burr or what ever spiked and tiled intensity the architect pronged from his melting fantasia,

*

Almost audible: weft of continuous color, blocks of mint, green-yellow glaze, olive floating above a violet underpainting, contentious against the citron and yellow-flung, seamless texture, like the hare of the cicadas, ceaseless music through which outbreaks of blue assert themselves.

*

In the flashpoint summer of 2002 it was possible to feel where we were headed, sun screwing its titanium compress down on human foreheads in the parking lots, thin tamarisks on the margin shimmering a little as if seen through fumes of gasoline, and I was in the absolute darkness of Fresno, past the middle of my life. As if I’d been colonized by the long swathes of car lots, flapping pennants stunned under the mercury lamps,

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