“Try to learn to breathe deeply, really to taste food when you eat, and when you sleep, really to sleep. Try as much as possible to be wholly alive with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell. And when you get angry, get good and angry. Try to be alive. You will be dead soon enough.”—Ernest Hemingway (via elige)
I wanted to punch her right in the mouth and that’s the truth.
After all, we had gotten from the station of the flickering glances to the station of the hungry mouths, from the shoreline of skirts and faded jeans to the ocean of unencumbered skin, from the perilous…
Let me cook you some dinner. Sit down and take off your shoes and socks and in fact the rest of your clothes, have a daquiri, turn on some music and dance around the house, inside and out, it’s night and the neighbors are sleeping, those dolts, and the stars are shining bright, and I’ve got the burners lit for you, you hungry thing.
“A writer must reflect and interpret his society, his world; he must also provide inspiration and guidance and challenge. Much writing today strikes me as deprecating, destructive, and angry. There are good reasons for anger, and I have nothing against anger. But I think some writers have lost their sense of proportion, their sense of humor, and their sense of appreciation.”—Half a century ago, E. B. White articulated brilliantly much of today’s media folly. (via explore-blog)
A woman travels to Brazil for plastic surgery and a face-lift. She is sixty and has the usual desire to stay pretty. Once she is healed, she takes her new face out on the streets of Rio. A young man with a gun wants her money. Bang, she’s dead. The body is shipped back to New York, but in the morgue there is a mix-up. The son is sent for. He is told that his mother is one of these ten different women. Each has been shot. Such is modern life. He studies them all but can’t find her. With her new face, she has become a stranger. Maybe it’s this one, maybe it’s that one. He looks at their breasts. Which ones nursed him? He presses their hands to his cheek. Which ones consoled him? He even tries climbing onto their laps to see which feels most familiar but the coroner stops him. Well, says the coroner, which is your mother? They all are, says the young man, let me take them as a package. The coroner hesitates, then agrees. Actually, it solved a lot of problems. The young man has the ten women shipped home, then cremates them all together. You’ve seen how some people have a little urn on the mantel? This man has a huge silver garbage can. In the spring, he drags the garbage can out to the garden and begins working the teeth, the ash, the bits of bone into the soil. Then he plants tomatoes. His mother loved tomatoes. They grow straight from seed, so fast and big that the young man is amazed. He takes the first ten into the kitchen. In their roundness, he sees his mother’s breasts. In their smoothness he finds the consoling touch of her hands. Mother, mother, he cries, and flings himself on the tomatoes. Forget about the knife, the fork, the pinch of salt. Try to imagine the filial starvation, think of his ravenous kisses.
“Put me down in the snakes,” she said. He laid her down on the dirt floor of the pit on her back. She writhed gently looking up at him. “Oh God, your snakes are cold,” she said. She touched her belly. “They’re here. They’re filling me here.” She touched…