- NYRB Edition of "The Gallery" by John Horne Burns. pages 179-180, 245-246, 257-258.
- Uday Prakash's "The Girl with the Golden Parasol", 2008 translation by Jason Grunebaum. Read as a PDF; page numbers absent.
- Rahul and Anjali locked themselves in an embrace with such force, filled with such longing, it was as if they needed the entire expanse of the earth to make their wish come true. The space between stacks of books was too narrow. Never before had Rahul lifted Anjali up and she wrapped her legs around his waist. Those seconds were like suddenly finding oneself in the middle of a misty twilight. Both could scarcely catch their breath. Rahul's half-closed eyes opened from their trance and regarded Anjali's face, which had changed completely. Now it was some flower being burned by fire, quivering, wilting into an enchanting potion.
- In that hazy moment, Anjali's eyes appeared to Rahul. What eyes they were, watching a dream unfold of another world. Her eyes were strictly focused, but what she was staring at was some scene far off in the distance, of another realm, another time. She looked as if she would swoon. They were like two fish swimming in the strong current of a stream, having touched one another, yet their tiny bodies still full of such longing for one another that they continue to swim, and they still want to pierce one another through and through. Time and again their bodies make innocent, improbable gestures to extract themselves from each other's insides.
- Yesterday had been Thursday, and in spite of everything turned upside down, the organic timepiece in Rahul's heart had been beating through every second in wait: tick-tick, tick-tick. . .Then he (Hemant Barua) took Rahul aside and said, "I'm leaving in ten days, so take what I have to say very seriously. Get yourself out of this gutter. I've warned you from the beginning, and I've given you all the data. . .You will neither get a job in this Hindi business, nor will you become an author. You are a neoromantic idealistic simpleton." Hemant thought a bit more and continued. "You're not going to like this, and I couldn't decide whether or not it was best to spell it out for you. But I'm your friend and really love you. So here it is. The truth is that you're never going to get this girl you're chasing after and, by the way, also gambling your life with. You'll end up on the losing end. Mark my words: when it comes time for her to make a choice, she won't choose you, she'll choose someone from her own caste. Get yourself out of here, Rahul. You've become their walking target," Hemant said. He began to get choked up, and his eyes filled with tears.
- Henry Miller's "The World of Sex", 1965 edition of The Olympia Reader.
- And the core, that too? No, the core of the apple lingers, even if only as an idea. That every apple has a core, is this not sufficient to counterbalance all uncertainty, all doubt and misgiving? What matter the world, what matter the suffering and death of untold millions, what matter if everything goes to pot--as long as she, the heart and core, remains! Even if he is to never see her again he is free to think about her, speak to her in dreams, love her, love her from afar, love her forever and ever. No one can deny him that. No, no one.
- Like a body composed of millions of cells, sorrow grows and grows and grows, becomes the world and all that is, or the riddle which answers to it. Everything fades but the torment. Things are the way they are. That is the horrible, the perpetual torment. (43)
- A whore, if treated right, can be the most generous of souls. Her one desire is to be able to give herself, not just her body. . . Do we not say: "Go get yourself a fuck!" Strange locution. As if one could possibly get a fuck without giving one. Even in this basic realm of communion the notion prevails that a fuck is something to get, not to give. Or, if the opposite is stressed-- Jesus, what a fuck I gave her! --then the thought of something received in exchange is obscured. No man or woman can boast of handing out a good fuck unless he or she is well fucked too. Otherwise one might as well talk of fucking a bag of oats. (44-45)
- Anais Nin's The Winter of Artifice, 2007 Sky Blue Press edition, ePUB file.
- I could not hear his words. His voice rumbled over the surface of my skin, like another caress. I had no power against his voice. It came straight from him into me. I could stuff my ears and still it would find its way into my blood and make it rise. / "I'm afraid of breaking you," he said. "I feel a little embarrassed with you. You seem so fragile." He covered me with his coat. "Only come to me again, come close to me, come close. I promise you it will be beautiful. I will never hurt you. I could never hurt you." / "But I don't care if you do," I said laughing. "I want you to always be yourself, and I know there is cruelty in you too. I want to grant you all the privileges; you can be undivided, artist and saint, hungry animal and clown." / "You urge me, you invite me to be myself, so blithely, so boldly, with a laugh even. You invite me to venture anything. I adore you for that."
jul 7 2026 ∞
jul 7 2026 +