De sintaxis y otros males

"No hay nada peor que una chica que lee."

"Una chica que lee posee un vocabulario capaz de describir el descontento de una vida insatisfecha. Un vocabulario que analiza la belleza innata del mundo y la convierte en una alcanzable necesidad, en vez de algo maravilloso pero extraño a ti."

"La chica que lee entiende de sintaxis. La literatura le ha enseñado que los momentos de ternura llegan en intervalos esporádicos pero predecibles y que la vida no es plana. Sabe y exige, como corresponde, que el flujo de la vida venga con una corriente de decepción."

No se resignará a vivir sin pasión, sin perfección, a llevar una vida que no sea digna de ser narrada.

 

(Texto completo: Salir con chicas que no leen / Salir con chicas que leen )

 

 

 

 

I walk in.
I see you.
I watch you.
I scan you.
I wait for you.
I tickle you.
I tease you.
I search you.
I breathe you.
I talk.

I smile.
I touch your hair.
You are the one.
You are the one
Who did this to me.
You are my own.
I show you.
I feel you.
I ask you.
I don't ask.

I don't wait.
I won't ask you.
I can't tell you.
I lie.
I am crying hard.
There was blood.
No one told me.
No one knew.
My mother knows.
I forget your name.

I don't think.
I bury my head.
I bury your head.
I bury you.
My fever.
My skin.
I cannot breathe.
I cannot eat.
I cannot walk.
I am losing time.

I am losing ground.
I cannot stand it.
I cry.
I cry out.
I bite.
I bite your lip.
I breathe you breath.
I pulse.
I pray aloud.

I smell you on my skin.
I say the word.
I say your name.
I cover you.
I shelter you.
I run from you.
I sleep beside you.
I smell you.
On my clothes.
I keep your clothes.

 
Jenny Holzer 





Cinismo emocional.





 

Sherlock: It has its costs.

Watson: What does?

Sherlock: Learning to see the puzzle in everything. They're everywhere. Once you start looking, it's impossible to stop. It just so happens that people, and all the deceits and delusions that inform everything they do, tend to be the most fascinating puzzles of all. Of course, they don't always appreciate being seen as such.

Watson: Seems like a lonely way to live.

Sherlock: As I said, it has its costs.

Cathy's come home

It began oddly. You know I was wild after she died; and eternally, from dawn to dawn, praying her to return to me her spirit! I have a strong faith in ghosts: I have a conviction that they can, and do, exist among us!

The day she was buried, there came a fall of snow. In the evening I went to the churchyard. It blew bleak as winter—all round was solitary. I didn’t fear that her fool of a husband would wander up the glen so late; and no one else had business to bring them there.

Being alone, and conscious two yards of loose earth was the sole barrier between us, I said to myself ‘I’ll have her in my arms again! If she be cold, I’ll think it is this north wind that chills me ; and if she be motionless, it is sleep.”

I got a spade from the tool-house, and began to delve with all my might—it scraped the coffin; I fell to work with my hands; the wood commenced cracking about the screws; I was on the point of attaining my object, when it seemed that I heard a sigh from some one above, close at the edge of the grave, and bending down. “If I can only get this off,” I muttered, “I wish they may shovel in the earth over us both!” and I wrenched at it more desperately still. There was another sigh, close at my ear. I appeared to feel the warm breath of it displacing the sleet-laden wind. I knew no living thing in flesh and blood was by; but, as certainly as you perceive the approach to some substantial body in the dark, though it cannot be discerned, so certainly I felt that Cathy was there: not under me, but on the earth.

A sudden sense of relief flowed from my heart through every limb. I relinquished my labour of agony, and turned consoled at once: unspeakably consoled. Her presence was with me: it remained while I re-filled the grave, and led me home. You may laugh, if you will; but I was sure I should see her there. I was sure she was with me, and I could not help talking to her.

Having reached the Heights, I rushed eagerly to the door. It was fastened; and, I remember, that accursed Earnshaw and my wife opposed my entrance. I remember stopping to kick the breath out of him, and then hurrying upstairs, to my room and hers. I looked round impatiently—I felt her by me—I could almost see her, and yet I could not ! I ought to have sweat blood then, from the anguish of my yearning—from the fervour of my supplications to have but one glimpse! I had not one. She showed herself, as she often was in life, a devil to me! And, since then, sometimes more and sometimes less, I’ve been the sport of that intolerable torture! Infernal! keeping my nerves at such a stretch that, if they had not resembled catgut, they would long ago have relaxed to the feebleness of Linton’s.

When I sat in the house with Hareton, it seemed that on going out I should meet her; when I walked on the moors I should meet her coming in. When I went from home I hastened to return; she must be somewhere at the Heights, I was certain! And when I slept in her chamber—I was beaten out of that. I couldn’t lie there; for the moment I closed my eyes, she was either outside the window, or sliding back the panels, or entering the room, or even resting her darling head on the same pillow as she did when a child; and I must open my lids to see. And so I opened and closed them a hundred times a night—to be always disappointed! It racked me! I’ve often groaned aloud, till that old rascal Joseph no doubt believed that my conscience was playing the fiend inside of me.

Now, since I’ve seen her, I’m pacified—a little. It was a strange way of killing: not by inches, but by fractions of hairbreadths, to beguile me with the spectre of a hope through eighteen years!’


(Heathcliff, Wuthering Heights)




Y acá es donde la aversión es reemplazada por infinita compasión.

Timeless Oscar

The error all women commit. Why can’t you women love us, faults  and all? Why do you place us on monstrous pedestals? We have all feet of clay, women as well as men; but when we men love women, we love them knowing their weaknesses, their follies, their imperfections, love them all the more, it may be, for that reason. It is not the perfect, but the imperfect, who have need of love. It is when we are wounded by our own hands, or by the hands of others, that love should come to cure us – else what use is love at all? All sins, except a sin against itself, Love should forgive. All lives, save loveless lives, true Love should pardon. A man’s love is like that. It is wider, larger, more human than a woman’s. 

Women think that they are making ideals of men. What they are making of us are false idols merely. You made your false idol of me, and I had not the courage to come down, show you my wounds, tell you my weaknesses. 

I was afraid that I might lose your love, as I have lost it now.

Oscar Wilde, An Ideal Husband