lunes, 30 de junio de 2014

3. Ch. XII (Fragment on Prostitution and Love) CR



2. Ch. XII (Fragment On loving someone) CR)



1. Ch. XII (Fragment CR)


Blue Nights by Joan Didion Fragment on memories

Joan Didion with her daughter Quintana Roo

"You have your wonderful memories", people said later, as if memories were solace. Memories are not. Memories are by definition of times past, things gone . Memories are the Westlake uniforms in the closet, the faded and cracked photographs, the invitations to the weddings of the people who are no longer married, the mass cards from the funerals of the people whose faces you no longer remember. Memories are what you no longer want to remember.

-Joan Didion

Joan Didion on mementos (Blue Nights)

Joan Didion

In fact I no longer value this kind of memento.
I no longer want reminders of what was, what got broken, what got lost, what got wasted.

… objects for which there is no satisfactory resolution.


I continue opening boxes.
I find more faded and cracked photographs that I want ever again to see.
I find many engraved invitations to the weddings of people who are no longer married.
I find many mass cards from the funerals of people whose faces I no longer remember.
In theory these mementos serve to bring back the moment.
In fact they serve only to make clear how inadequate I appreciated the moment when it was here.
How inadequately I appreciated the moment when it was here is something else I could never afford to see.

-Joan Didion

10 quotes from "Blue Nights" by Joan Didion

Just finished it, an honest book, I love Didion.

Joan Didion

Time passes.
Memory fades, memory adjusts, memory conforms
to what we think we remember.

This was never supposed to happen to her, I remember thinking – outraged, as if she and I had been promised an exemption- in the third of those intensive care units.

Time passes.
Could it be that I never believed it?
Did I believe the blue nights could last forever?

In fact I no longer value this kind of memento.
I no longer want reminders of what was, what got broken, what got lost, what got wasted.

… objects for which there is no satisfactory resolution.

I put the word “diagnosis” in quotes because I have not yet seen that case in which a “diagnosis” led to a “cure”, or in fact to any outcome other than confirmed, and therefore an enforced, debility.

I had seen the  charm, I had seen the composure, I had seen the suicidal despair.

Seasons in Southern California suggest violence, but not necessarily death.

I tell you this true story just to prove that I can.
That my frailty has not yet reached a point at which
I can no longer tell a true story.

There comes a time, I told myself, at which a family is, for better or for worse, finished.

- Joan Didion

Amor Fati by Adam Colin Chambers

Amor Fati

To isabel

Sin reservas deseando nada
salvo el deseo de vivir,
sintiendo formarse una emoción
momentos indecisos
antes de las primeras pintadas
del pensamiento,
antes de poder pararlos,
nuestros cuerpos
nada más
que moldes que escalar
dentro de...
una casa
y moviéndose...
prometiéndonos nada
salvo placeres inacabables...
las únicas “verdades”
que conocemos...
un amor de destino,
o amor y destino,
o ambos
lo que yace debajo
es la esperanza-
la palabra más hermosa del mundo
la única que conozco.

-Adam C. Chambers

jueves, 26 de junio de 2014

15 fragments by Milan Kundera, The Unbearable lightness of Being (II)

The unwritten contract of erotic friendship stipulated that Tomas should exclude all love from his life. The moment he violated that clause of the contract, his other mistresses would assume inferior status and become ripe for insurrection.

… spending the night together was the corpus delicti of love.

He never spent the night with the others. It was easy enough if he was at their place: he could leave whenever he pleased. It was worse when they were at his and he had to explain that come midnight he would have to drive them home because he was an insomniac and found it impossible to fall asleep in close proximity to another person. Though it was not far from the truth, he never dared to tell them the whole truth: after making love he had an uncontrollable craving to be by himself; waking in the middle of the night at the side of an alien body was distasteful to him, rising in the morning with an intruder repellent; he had no desire to be overheard brushing his teeth in the bathroom, nor was he enticed by the thought of an intimate breakfast.

Lying there looking at her, he could not quite understand what had happened. But as he ran through the previous few hours in his mind, he began to sense an aura of hitherto unknown happiness emanating from them.
From that time on they both looked forward to sleeping together. I might even say that the goal of their lovemaking was not so much pleasure as the sleep that followed.

Lying in a hearse as big as a furniture van, she was surrounded by dead women. There were so many of them that the back door would not close and several legs dangled out.
‘But I’m not dead!’ Tereza cried. ‘I can still feel!’
‘So can we,’ the corpses laughed.

To love someone out of compassion means not really to love.

Looking back on the years he had spent with her, he came to feel that their story could have had no better ending. If someone had invented the story, this is how he would have had to end it.
One day Tereza came to him uninvited. One day she left the same way. She came with a heavy suitcase. She left with a heavy suitcase.

His love for Tereza was beautiful, but it was also tiring: he had constantly had to hide things from her, sham, dissemble, make amends, buck her up, calm her down, give her evidence of his feelings, play the defendant to her jealousy, her suffering, and her dreams, feel guilty, make excuses and apologies. Now what was tiring had disappeared and only the beauty remained.

On Saturday and Sunday, he felt the sweet lightness of being rise up to him out of the depths of the future. On Monday, he was hit by the weight the likes of which he had never known. The tons of steel of the Russian tanks were nothing compared with it. For there is nothing heavier than compassion. Not even one’s own pain weighs so heavy as the pain one feels, with someone, for someone, a pain intensified by the imagination and prolonged by a hundred echoes.
He kept warning himself not to give in to compassion, and compassion listened with bowed head and a seemingly guilty conscience.

When we ignore the body, we are more easily victimized by it.

She took after her mother, and not only physically. I sometimes have the feeling that her entire life was merely a continuation of her mother’s, much as the course of a ball on the billiard table is merely the continuation of the player’s arm movement.
Where and when did it begin, the movement that later turned into Tereza’s life?

Chance and chance alone has a message for us. Everything that occurs out of necessity, everything expected, repeated day in and day out, is mute. Only chance can speak to us.

Necessity knows no magic formulae – they are all left to chance, if love is to be unforgettable, fortuities must immediately start fluttering down to it like birds to Francis of Assisi’s shoulders.

Without realizing it, the individual composes his life according to the law of beauty even in time of greatest distress.

Anyone whose goal is ‘something higher’ must expect some day to suffer vertigo.  What is vertigo? Fear of falling? Then why do we feel it even when the observation tower comes equipped with a sturdy handrail? No, vertigo is something other than the fear of falling. It is the voice of the emptiness below us which tempts and lures us, it is the desire to fall, against which, terrified, we defend ourselves.

She was on the grip of an insuperable longing to fall. She lived in a constant state of vertigo.
‘Pick me up’, is the message of a person who keeps falling. Tomas kept picking her up, patiently.

-Milan Kundera

miércoles, 25 de junio de 2014

Simone de Beauvoir on Brigitte Bardot

Brigitte Bardot

"The line of her lips forms a childish pout, and at the same time her lips are very kissable…. She turns up her nose at elegant clothes, jewels, girdles, perfumes, makeup, and all artifice. Yet her walk is lascivious and a saint would sell his soul to the devil to watch her dance…"

-         Simone de Beauvoir on Brigitte Bardot

Ch XIV (Fragment On women and sex) CR

Photo by A. Chambers


domingo, 22 de junio de 2014



The city awaits me with legs wide open
it smiles 
      but it’s dead
and the dead are dead
even though they smile.
As I walk the empty streets
I think of him
he used to be the image of this city
- not so long ago-
The buildings are full of ashes.
I never told him this
but he smelled like a dead man
I always thought he was about to die
in any moment,
the whole city smells like him:
it’s rotten.


Yes, Simone loved Nelson Algren and they were lovers.

Simone de Beauvoir getting dressed in Algren's bathroom, photographed by Art Shay -Algren's best friend-. 

Camus told me I looked younger than before and "disgustingly happy" youth and happiness were given by you. yeah it is happiness even through so many tears.)

-Simone de Beauvoir (Letter to Nelson Algren, October the 3rd 1947)

Nos veían

Photo by Adam Chambers

Nos veían Nietzsche y Proust


He’s a destination

He never ends.

miércoles, 18 de junio de 2014

Milan Kundera (10 quotes- The Unbearable Lightness of Being)

A lot more to come, can't I just copy and paste all of his books? magnificent 

But when the strong were too weak to hurt the weak, the weak had to be strong enough to leave.

For there is nothing heavier than compassion. Not even one’s own pain weighs so heavy as the pain one feels with someone, for someone, a pain intensified by the imagination and prolonged by a hundred echoes.

Making love with a woman and sleeping with a woman are two separate passions, not merely different but opposite. Love does not make itself felt in the desire for copulation (a desire that extends to an infinite number of women) but in the desire for shared sleep (a desire limited to one woman).

In the sunset of dissolution, everything is illuminated by the aura of nostalgia, even the guillotine.

Metaphors are not to be trifled with. A single metaphor can give birth to love.

 Physical love is unthinkable without violence.

What is flirtation? One might say that it is behavior leading another to believe that sexual intimacy is possible, while preventing that possibility from becoming a certainty. In other words, flirting is a promise of sexual intercourse without a guarantee.

We live everything as it comes, without warning, like an actor going on cold. And what can life be worth if the first rehearsal for life is life itself?

There is no means of testing which decision is better, because there is no basis for comparison. We live everything as it comes, without warning, like an actor going on cold. And what can life be worth if the first rehearsal for life is life itself? That is why life is always like a sketch. No, “sketch” is not quite a word, because a sketch is an outline of something, the groundwork for a picture, whereas the sketch that is our life is a sketch for nothing, an outline with no picture.

The only relationship that can make both partners happy is one in which sentimentality has no place and neither partner makes any claim on the life and freedom of the other.

-Milan Kundera

martes, 17 de junio de 2014

Orhan Pamuk, on time

Thanks to Adam for sharing his notes from the chapter on Time.


My life has taught me that remembering Time – that line connecting all the moments that Aristotle called the present – is for most of us a rather painful business. When we try to conjure up the line connecting all the objects that carry those moments inside them, we are forced to remember that the line comes to an end, and to contemplate death. As we get older and come to the painful realization that this line per se has no real meaning – a sense that comes to us cumulatively in intimations we struggle to ignore – we are brought to sorrow. But sometimes these moments we call the “present” can bring us enough happiness to last a century, as they did if Füsun smiled, in the days when I was going to Cukurcuma for supper. I knew from the beginning that I was going to the Keskin house hoping to harvest enough happiness to last me the rest of my life, and it was to preserve these happy moments for the future that I picked up so many objects large and small that Füsun had touched, and took them away with me.

For me, happiness is in reliving those unforgettable moments. If we can learn to stop thinking of our lives as a line… treasuring our time instead for its deepest moments, each in turn, then waiting eight years at your beloved’s dinner table no longer seems such a strange and laughable obsession but rather (as I would discover much later) assumes the reality of 1,593 happy nights at Füsun’s dinner table. Today I remember each and every evening I went to supper in Cukurcuma – even the most difficult, most hopeless, most humiliating evenings – as happiness.


- Orhan Pamuk

Mi poema de esta semana en Nalgas y Libros

“The only reason people want to be masters of the future is to change the past.”
-Milan Kundera

Para poder volver

Era verano
se celebraba la copa mundial
y era el a
ño 2014.
Nosotros pensábamos que era el futuro
hasta que descubrimos que el tiempo
es una mentira,
 una invención extra
En realidad,
ya habíamos sido.
No teníamos ningún dios
pero creíamos en Nietzsche
y creíamos en Proust
y en una multitud de dioses paganos
con ojos rojos por el suicidio
y una ciudad parisina a sus espaldas.
Un día antes
Holanda le había ganado 5-1 a Espa
la ciudad ardía
y nosotros también
mientras nos emborrachábamos
 en una fiesta de squatters
sujetos a evicción
y a los malos tratos con la policía.
Bebíamos de la misma botella de vino
sentados en el piso
rodeados de revoluciones
que se gestaban en cuartos oscuros.
Y nos quitamos la ropa
para leer en voz alta
 fragmentos de Kundera
parados en una ba
las baldosas nos hablaban
de rebeliones vencidas.
tus amigos
pintores- poetas- músicos
nos aplaudían;
los pocos comunistas que asistieron
nos tacharon de individualistas,
nosotros de partidistas y mentirosos
pero terminamos comprándoles cervezas
 y algunos cigarrillos.
Nos fuimos a tu piso
éramos la conciencia libre
de los derrotados
ya no había nada que perder,
ya todo estaba perdido.
Corría la primera mitad del a
ño 2014
y amanecía,
yo me agarraba a ti
sentada en la parte trasera de tu bici
y tú me agarrabas las mu
con una de tus manos
tal vez de mí misma.
E hicimos el amor
contra el frío
como hacen el amor
los abandonados
que aún creen que las cosas
 pueden ir mejor al otro día;
como dos ni
ños jugando a ser salvados.
Cínicos, distantes y estropeados por el mundo
pero sobre todo
por la violencia del amor.

Corría el a
ño 2014
Holanda le ganaba 5-1 a Espa
y tú y yo hacíamos el amor
                            borrachos y enloquecidos.


lunes, 16 de junio de 2014

I would say yes


           When I stared at him
through listless eyes
he would sit down in front of me
just to look into my eyes,
we knew there was no need
of breaking our silence,
we knew we were safe.
Sometimes he would become a bird
jumping out of his balcony
and flying
just to come back some hours later,
sometimes his flat would be full of cats
- fornicated cats
sad and intelligent cats
but specially hungry cats -
In the long Summer afternoons
we would sit down looking at
the sand of the Sahara
that the wind brought 
every sunset to the sky.
We would read poetry and novels
and we would cry
he would read to me and his voice
would break at some point
and I would caress him
and kiss his forehead
I would be tender
as if kissing my dog
and if someone would ask me
years later

if I was happy
I would say yes,
those were one
 of the happiest moments

in my life.


jueves, 12 de junio de 2014

Orhan Pamuk (5 more quotes The Museum of Innocence)


‘Did you see what your father did to me?’ said my mother. ‘Even when he was dying, he didn’t let me know”

…We all fall in love. But in the end we all pull ourselves out of it before we ruin our lives…

The power of things inheres in the memories they gather up inside them, and also in the vicissitudes of our imagination, and our memory – of this there is no doubt.


But Papatya took control of the matter, telling her own lies from the start.

Can there be such thing as love in a place like this? Take care! Don’t deceive yourself.

-Orhan Pamuk