Posts Tagged ‘ the list goes ever on and on ’

quotes from a wallace acolyte

“When they were introduced, he made a witticism, hoping to be liked. She laughed extremely hard, hoping to be liked. Then each drove home alone, staring straight ahead, with the very same twist to their faces. The man who’d introduced them didn’t much like either of them, though he acted as if he did – anxious as he was to preserve good relations at all times. One never knew, after all, now did one?”

I’d really rather have had no pageviews at all, rather than to see this downward-and-further-downward decline. But, since my output is victim to neglect, here’s some more Wallace. Nice days, all of you.

N.B. New quotes will be appearing here semi-regularly. Keep in touch.

“It now lately sometimes seemed like a kind of black miracle to me that people could actually care deeply about a subject or pursuit, and could go on caring this way for years on end. Could dedicate their entire lives to it. It seemed admirable and at the same time pathetic. We are all dying to give our lives away to something, maybe. God or Satan, politics or grammar, topology or philately -the object seemed incidental to this will to give oneself away, utterly. To games or needles, to some other person. Something pathetic about it. A flight-from in the form of a plunging into.”

Well, love, but you know the idiom ‘not yourself’ – ‘He’s not himself today,’ for example,” crooking and uncrooking fingers to form quotes on either side of what she says, which Mario adores. “There are, apparently, persons who are deeply afraid of their own emotions, particularly the painful ones. Grief, regret, sadness. Sadness especially, perhaps. Dolores describes these persons as afraid of obliteration, emotional engulfment. As if something truly and thoroughly felt would have no end or bottom. Would become infinite and engulf them.” (p. 765)

They have shifted into a sexual mode. Her lids flutter; his close. There’s a concentrated tactile languor. She is left-handed. It is not about consolation. They start the thing with each other’s buttons. It is not about conquest or forced capture. It is not about glands or instincts of the split-second shiver and clench of leaving yourself; nor about love or about whose love you deep-down desire, by whom you feel betrayed. Not and never love, which kills what needs it… rather about hope, an immense, wide-as-the-sky hope of finding… a something the same that will propitiate hope…that there is now inside her a vividness vacuumed of all but his name.” (P.566)

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