Jorge Luis Borges, The Suicide (via heddagabler)
…thy rope of sands…
George Herbert (1593-1623)1
Lines consist of an infinite number of points; planes an infinite number of lines; volumes an infinite number of planes, hypervolumes an infinite number of volumes… No, this, this more geometrico, is definitely not the best way to begin my tale. Affirming a fantastic tale’s truth is now a story-telling convention; mine, though, is true.
I live alone, in a fourth-floor apartment on Calle Belgrano. One evening a few months ago, I heard a knock on the door. I opened it and in walked someone I had never met before. He was a tall man, of indistinct features. My myopia perhaps made me see him that way. Everything about him spoke of an honest poverty. He was dressed in grey and carried a grey valise. I sensed immediately that he was a foreigner. At first I thought him an old man; later I noticed that what misled me was his sparse hair, an almost-white blond, like a Scandinavian’s. Over the course of our conversation, which would last no longer than an hour, I learnt that he hailed from the Orkneys.
Is philosophy literature? Do people read philosophy for pleasure? Of course it is, and of course they do… (click title to read more)
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When you are engulfed in Flames - David Sedaris (via thenextbestbookclub)
Henri 3, Le Vet (by HenriLeChatNoir)
Jean-Paul Sartre as translated by Lloyd Alexander in ‘Nausea’. Norfolk, Conn.: New Directions, 1949 (p.134). (via henceaway)
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