And I see the houses of the human race perched on the edge of the sea, shipwrecked in their false neighborliness. Cold has a thousand ways of moving in the world: on the sea it gallops like a troop of horses, on the countryside it falls like a swarm of locusts, in the cities like a knife-blade it slashes the streets and penetrates the chinks of unheated houses. Many miles away there is a small stairway leading upwards to flats unfolding like a book; each single life is an encyclopedia, a library, an inventory of objects, a series of styles, and everything can be constantly shuffled and reordered in every way conceivable. Each of us is the object of the other’s reading, one reads in the other the unwritten story. Separating the individual human chapters, rain gutters scar over the house’s facade by leading off, like veins, the myriads of the tears not cried. There is no child in a window who laughs seeing a dog that has jumped on a shed to bite into a piece of polenta dropped by a stonemason who has shouted from the top of the scaffolding. No lighted ground-floor windows, each with a woman combing her hair. But at night, putting your ear to the ground, you can sometimes hear a door slam. The place is deserted - the cemetery is the home of those who are not here; come in! And thus, when some people happen to find themselves together, meetings, seductions, copulations, orgies are consummated among them without a word exchanged, without a finger touching anything and almost without an eye raised.
You take delight not in a city’s seven or seventy wonders, but in the answer it gives to a question of yours; or to the question it asks you, forcing you to answer. Arriving at each new city, the traveler finds again a past of his that he did not know he had: the foreignness of what you no longer are or no longer possess lies in wait for you in foreign, unpossessed places. When you’re young, all evolution lies before you, every road is open to you. The dreamed-of city contained him as a young man; he arrives there in his old age. And nothing was left that could remind him of it, even remotely, nothing except perhaps that cold wall of gray stone or other shops which look like them and the colours of the writing on the shop signs. In the square there is the wall where the old men sit and watch the young go by; he is seated in a row with them. Childhood boredom is a special kind of boredom. It is a boredom full of dreams, a sort of projection into another place, into another reality. In adulthood boredom is made of repetition, it is the continuation of something from which we are no longer expecting any surprise. Desires are already memories. Instead of taking one road he had taken the opposite one, and after long wandering he had come to be in the place of those men in that square.
Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely, but to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, worn out, and defiantly shouting ‘wow, what a ride!’ There are only two mistakes one can make along the road to self-fulfillment; not going all the way, and not starting. Life is one big road with lots of signs. So when you riding through the ruts, don’t complicate your mind. Don’t bury your thoughts, put your vision to reality. Wake up and live. There are roads known by everyone and there are roads known by no one. Choose the second, the mysterious one where many glories are hidden. The middle of the road is where the white line is – and that’s the worst place to drive.
There was a town where everything was forbidden. Now, since the only thing that wasn’t forbidden was the games of soldiers, the town’s youngsters used to assemble on meadows behind the town and spend the day there playing soldiers. But at home nobody ever taught us how to light a cigarette in a storm of rain, nor how a fire could be made with wet wood – nor that it is best to stick a bayonet in the belly because there it doesn’t get jammed, as it does in the ribs. Why do they never tell us that you are poor devils like us, that your mothers are just as anxious as ours, and that we have the same fear of death, and the same dying and the same agony. Forgive me, buddy; how could you be my enemy? Grown-ups are an untrustworthy, treacherous lot, they don’t take their games in the serious wholehearted way children do, and yet they too have their own games, one more serious than the other, one game inside another, so that it’s impossible to discover what the real one is -- and to think that when we grow up we may be as stupid as they are.
Girls and cars, cars and girls -- no two subjects have had a greater impact on males since the dawn of our species. The lengths at which they’ll go to taste the fruits of both, limitless. Mesmerized by curves, straight lines that flow, right into crevices with depths unknown. To hear her purr, feel the revving deep within; to watch her surge, makes a man want to sin. From birth it's an active pursuit, of any viable prospect that could deliver these two. The call to be in the service of a bright set of eyes and glowing headlights. A smart young chap never misses the opportunity to bask in the glow of feminine light that can only be compared to a spark in the dead of night. To capture the magic found in moments of freedom that come when this coupling reaches its pinnacle. Whenever the two become one it's a case of spontaneous combustion. Observing in awe at the vibrancy on display as car and girl, girl and car, waltz in their own special way. He, forever a slave to immortalizing the irresistible gravity that will be formed when car and girl coalesce. ~ Francesca
Miss American Pie drove her Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry. Eight miles a gallon and driving fast, she landed foul on the grass. No James Dean to borrow her a coat. Moss grows fat on a rolling stone and while we were looking down, the jester stole the thorny crown. Jack is nimble, Jack is quick, Jack Flash sits on a candlestick. No angel born in Hell and fire is the Devil’s only friend, and the three men we admire most, The Father, Son, the Holy Ghost, they caught the last train to the coast. There we are, all in one place. A generation lost in space. No time left to start again, but them good ol’ boys are drinking whiskey and rye, singing ‘Bye-bye, Miss American Pie, this will be the day that we die’.
The river reflected whatever it chose of sky and bridge and burning tree, and when the boy had oared his boat through the reflections they closed again, completely, as if they had never been. There one might have sat the clock round lost in thought. Thought, to call it by a prouder name than it deserved, had let its line down into the stream. It swayed, minute after minute, hither and thither among the reflections and the weeds, letting the water lift it and sink it until the sudden conglomeration of an idea at the end of one’s line: and then the cautious hauling of it in, and the careful laying of it out. Alas, laid on the grass how small, how insignificant this thought looked; the sort of fish that a good fisherman puts back into the water so that it may grow fatter and be one day worth cooking and eating.
Isidora, the King’s Queen and step daughter, has come down from Olympus to visit us mortals in our invisible cities. That human drift, which is natural simplicity itself, is not for you moderns, you children of reflection. It works only evil in you. As soon as you wish to be divine, you become common. To you nature seems something hostile; you have made devils out of the smiling gods of Greece, and out of me a demon. You can only exorcise and curse me, or slay yourselves in bacchantic madness before my altar. And if ever one of you has had the courage to kiss my red mouth, he makes a barefoot pilgrimage to Rome in penitential robes and expects flowers to grow from his withered staff, while under my feet roses, violets, and myrtles spring up every hour, but their fragrance does not agree with you. Stay among your northern fogs; but let us pagans remain under the debris, beneath the frozen lava – do not disinter us!