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the endings of great novels stay with you. a momentous rush that last dot, words and eyes speeding towards it almost with reluctance, until yes that world is done but something ripples out, a faint radiance or shadow, like the dark spot that lingers in your eye long after staring at the sun. this i felt reading:  —portrait of a lady by henry james —swann’s way by proust —the red and the black by stendhal —ulysses by joyce —the sun also rises by hemingway
Jan 30, 2024

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"Well, the pendulum swung today and I thought, instead of my own body, of Maurice’s. I thought of certain lines life had put on his face as personal as a line of his writing: I thought of a new scar on his shoulder that wouldn’t have been there if once he hadn’t tried to protect another man’s body from a falling wall. He didn’t tell me why he was in hospital those three days: Henry told me. That scar was part of his character as much as his jealousy. And so I thought, do I want that body to be vapour (mine yes, but his?), and I knew I wanted that scar to exist through all eternity. But could my vapour love that scar? Then I began to want my body that I hated, but only because it could love that scar. We can love with our minds, but can we love only with our minds? Love extends itself all the time, so that we can even love with our senseless nails: we love even with our clothes, so that a sleeve can feel a sleeve." simply perfection
Oct 30, 2024
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The literary equivelant to an Edward Hopper, Hemingway has enraptured readers with his terse yet evocative use of the written word. Each story is a kaleidoscope, his utilization of omission works in a hypnotizing and atmospheric effect. Hemingway moves from Saharan hunts brimming with sun-beating, murderous intensity to Spanish civil wars and cloudy French metropolitans. “The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber” is one of many stories which have stuck with me, and the book will stick with you after the last word and long after the turn of the final page.
Apr 20, 2024
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Stuck overnight in the empty halls of John Lennon International airport, I read this a couple of times and drove myself effectively insane, having significant ramifications on the following months. Great story.

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my best friend, now that she studies in a film school in the cuban countryside, took up the hobby as there isn’t much to do over there. she frequently talks to me about it, the quiet thrill of it, and all of a sudden i find myself looking up, frowning at the branches. i recently told her, half in jest (we were visiting home for the holidays) “what if we drop everything, go to papua new guinea, film the birds of paradise?” and she, dead serious, responded: “hmm… à la les blank?” expect the doc anytime soon!
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Her voice in ‘Pearls’ makes me ache
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my grandmother used to call me that. it means, in puerto rican vernacular, restless child (i was fussy and annoying and tested her patience). but the root of the word comes from medieval andalusian: he with the faculty to find what is hidden
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