Apospasmata Thread

όλη η αλήθεια:

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Pete sipped coffee. “Tell me more.”
“No, you ask.”
“Okay. I’m on the Sunset Strip and I want to get laid for a C-note. What do I do?”
“You see Mel, the parking-lot man at Dino’s Lodge. For a dime, he’ll send you to a pad on Havenhurst and Fountain.”
“Suppose I want nigger stuff?”
“Go to the drive-in at Washington and La Brea and talk to the colored carhops.”
“Suppose I dig boys?”
Lenny flinched. Pete said, “I know you hate fags, but answer the question.”
“Shit, I don’t ... wait ... the doorman at the Largo runs a string of male prosties.”
“Good. Now, what’s the story on Mickey Cohen’s sex life?”
Lenny smiled. “It’s cosmetic. He doesn’t really dig cooze, but he likes to be seen with beautiful women. His current quasigirlfriend is named Sandy Hashhagen. Sometimes he goes out with Candy Barr and Liz Renay.”
“Who clipped Tony Trombino and Tony Brancato?”
“Either Jimmy Frattiano or a cop named Dave Klein.”
“Who’s got the biggest dick in Hollywood?”
“Steve Cochran or John Ireland.”
“What’s Spade Cooley do for kicks?”
“Pop bennies and beat up his wife.”
“Who’d Ava Gardner cheat on Sinatra with?”
“Everybody.”
“Who do you see for a quick abortion?”
“I’d go see Freddy Otash.”
“Jayne Mansfield?”
“Nympho.”
“Dick Contino?”
“Muff diver supreme.”
“Gail Russell?”
“Drinking herself to death at a cheap pad in West L.A.”
“Lex Barker?”
“Pussy hound with jailbait tendencies.”
“Johnnie Ray?”
“Homo.”
“Art Pepper?”
“Junkie.”
“Lizabeth Scott?”
“Dyke.”
“Billy Eckstine?”
“Cunt man.”
“Tom Neal?”
“On the skids in Palm Springs.”
“Anita O’Day?”
“Hophead.”
“Cary Grant?”
“Homo.”
“Randolph Scott?”
“Homo.”
“Senator William F. Knowland?”
“Drunk.”
“Chief Parker?”
“Drunk.”
“Bing Crosby?”
“Drunk wife-beater.”
“Sergeant John O’Grady?”
“LAPD guy known for planting dope on jazz musicians.”
“Desi Arnaz?”
“Whore chaser.”
“Scott Brady?”
“Grasshopper.”
“Grace Kelly?”
“Frigid. I popped her once myself, and I almost froze my shvantze off.”
Pete laughed. “Me?”
Lenny grinned. “Shakedown king. Pimp. Killer. And in case you’re wondering, I’m much too smart to ever fuck with you.”
Pete said, “You’ve got the job.”
They shook hands.

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Να μας λες και τι είναι όμως, να αποφασίζουμε εύκολα αν μας αρέσει ή όχι.

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Originally Posted by Weiss

"It is not a brain. The brain, that pound and a half of chicken-colored goo so highly regarded (by the brain itself), that slimy organ to which is attributed such intricate and mysterious powers (it is the self-same brain that does the attributing), the brain is so weak that, without its protective casing to support it, it simply collapses of its own weight. So it could not be a brain"

Tom Robbins - Even cowgirls get the blues.

γελάω.

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Πώς έτσι, άκουσες κάτι αστείο την ώρα που διάβαζες αυτό;

έχω μια τάση να μην ακούω όταν διαβάζω.

γέλασα με τις παρενθέσεις, ήταν κάτι που δεν είχα σκεφτεί ποτέ!

We look at Nature and
Our nature is to classify
To satisfy some drive to
Draw lines between such
Things as cannot be divided then
If we minded our surroundings
They’re abounding with ample
Obvious examples of how things
Such as a plow are simple
Holy symbols of the unity
And infinity of Birth
To Rebirth for Life
Is rife with Death and
Each last breath is our first
On earth.

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Να μας λες και τι είναι όμως, να αποφασίζουμε εύκολα αν μας αρέσει ή όχι.

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james ellroy λοιπόν, american tabloid, σνομπάρετε άφοβα!

και κάτι ακόμα:

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Ο Βενσάν δεν είχε γνωρίσματα κυρίαρχου αρσενικού, δεν του άρεσαν καθόλου τα χαρέμια, και λίγες μέρες μετά το θάνατο του προφήτη έκανε μια μεγάλη συζήτηση με τη Σουζάν, που είχε αποτέλεσμα να απελευθερώσει τα υπόλοιπα κορίτσια. Αγνοώ τι μπορεί να είπαν, δεν ξέρω τι πίστευε η ίδια, εάν έβλεπε σε αυτόν μια μετενσάρκωση του προφήτη, εάν τον είχε αναγνωρίσει ως Βενσάν, έαν αυτός της είχε ομολογήσει ότι ήταν ο γιός του ή εάν εκείνη κατασκεύασε μια ενδιάμεση αντίληψη - όμως πιστεύεω ότι για την ίδια όλα αυτά δεν είχαν μεγάλη σημασία. Ανίκανη για οποιαδήποτε σχετικοποίηση, αρκετά αδιάφορη κατά βάθος για το ζήτημα της αλήθειας, η Σουζάν δεν μπορούσε να ζήσει αν δεν βρισκόταν, και μάλιστα ολοκληρωτικά, μέσα στον έρωτα. Έχοντας βρει ένα νέο ον να αγαπάει, που ίσως το αγαπούσε από πολύ καιρό, είχε βρει έναν νέο λόγο ύπαρξης, και ξέρω χωρίς κίνδυνο λάθους ότι θα έμεναν μαζί μέχρι την τελευταία μέρα, μέχρι να τους χωρίσει ο θάνατος, όπως λέμε, εκτός κι αν αυτή τη φορά δεν υπήρχε θάνατος, αν ο Μισκίεβιτς κατάφερνε να επιτύχει τους στόχους του, θα ξαναγεννιόνταν μαζί σε ανακαινισμένα σώματα και για πρώτη φορά στην ιστορία του κόσμου θα ζούσαν πραγματικά μια αγάπη δίχως τέλος.

Δεν είναι η κόπωση που βάζει τέλος στην αγάπη, ή μάλλον είναι εκείνη η κόπωση που προέρχεται από την ανυπομονησία των κορμιών που ξέρουν ότι είναι καταδικασμένα και που θα ήθελαν να ζήσουν, που θα ήθελαν στο χρονικό διάστημα που τους εκχωρείται να μην αφήσουν να χαθεί καμία ευκαιρία, να μην αφήσουν να διαφύγει καμία πιθανότητα, που θα ήθελαν να εκμεταλλευτούν στο έπακρον αυτό το περιορισμένο, παρακμάζον, μετριότατο χρονικό διάστημα που τους ανήκει, και συνεπώς δεν μπορούν να αγαπήσουν κανέναν γιατί όλοι οι άλλοι τους φαίνονται περιορισμένοι, παρακμάζοντες, μέτριοι.

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michel houellebecq - η δυνατότητα ενός νησιού

Άουτς.

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Originally Posted by LokiTricksterGod

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όλοι οι άλλοι είναι περιορισμένοι, παρακμάζοντες, μέτριοι.

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Ισχύει.

όχοχο έχει ρέντα έχει ρέντα... ο... ο... ο κοντός με τη μερέντα. χμ. ο νίκος. ο νίκος μας. ο εγγονόπουλος.

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Αργά χτές τήν νύκτα, στούς απάνω μαχαλάδες, άγριοι κι' αιμοβόροι αλβανοί, επτά τόν αριθμόν, έσφαξαν αλύπητα, μέσα στο ίδιο του τό κρεβάτι, τόν κυνοκέφαλο εραστή τής λησμονημένης Ιππολύτης. Οι απαίσιοι κακούργοι μπήκαν, χωρίς να τούς καταλάβη κανείς, μέσα στό δωμάτιο τού στυγερού εγκλήματος. Αφού έψαλαν, τη συνοδεία πλαγιαύλου, δύο άγνωστους - τουλάχιστον εις εμέ - ύμνους πρός τούς τσαλαπετεινούς, ετοποθέτησαν προσεκτικώτατα κάτω από ένα ποτήρι, περιέχον ελαφράν διάλυσιν ψαρόκολλας εντός ελαχίστης ποσότητος νιτρογλυκερίνης, ένα χαρτί. Το χαρτί αυτό ήταν ένα φύλλο κοινοτάτου χάρτου αλληλογραφίας, επί τού οποίου ήσαν γραμμέναι αι λέξεις: "Χρυσή κολώνα". Κατόπιν τούτου οι δολοφόνοι εξήλθον και πάλιν ανενόχλητοι. Ο κυνοκέφαλος εραστής - ας τόν πούμε έτσι, διότι το όνομα του Ισίδωρος μάς είναι άγνωστον - εξήλθε πολύ αργότερα του τραγικού δωματίου. Εφόρει φαιόχρουν αδιάβροχον και ομματουάλια.

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=))

κι ο ποιητής τα μανιτάρια του, βρε Λόκη.

We went down the spiral steel staircase to my library stacks, and I found a large book of Velazquez reproductions, and we sat side by side and turned the pages for fifteen minutes, a stirring quarter hour in which we both learned something—she, for the first time, about Velazquez, and I, anew, about the delightful imbecility of lust. All this talk! I show her Kafka, Velazquez . . . why does one do this? Well, you have to do something. These are the veils of the dance.
Don't confuse it with seduction. This is not seduction. What you're disguising is the thing that got you there, the pure lust. The veils veil the blind drive. Talking this talk, you have a misguided sense, as does she, that you know what you're dealing with. But it's not as though you're interviewing a lawyer or hiring a doctor and that whatever's said along the way is going to change your course of action. You know you want it and you know you're going to do it and nothing is going to stop you. Nothing is going to be said here that's going to change anything.

The great biological joke on people is that you are intimate before you know anything about the other person. In the initial moment you understand everything. You are drawn to each other's surface initially, but you also intuit the fullest dimension. And the attraction doesn't have to be equivalent: she's attracted to one thing, you to the other. It's surface, it's curiosity, but then, boom, the dimension. It's nice that she's from Cuba, it's nice that her grandmother was this and her grandfather was that, it's nice that I play the piano and own a Kafka manuscript, but all this is merely a detour on the way to getting where we're going. It's part of the enchantment, I suppose, but it's the part that if I could have none of, I'd feel much better. Sex is all the enchantment required. Do men find women so enchanting once the sex is taken out? Does anyone find anyone of any sex that enchanting unless they have sexual business with them? Who else are you that enchanted by? Nobody.

She thinks, I'm telling him who I am. He's interested in who I am. That is true, but I am curious about who she is because I want to fuck her. I don't need all of this great interest in Kafka and Velazquez. Having this conversation with her, I am thinking, How much more am I going to have to go through? Three hours? Four? Will I go as far as eight hours? Twenty minutes into the veiling and already I'm wondering, What does any of this have to do with her tits and her skin and how she carries herself? The French art of being flirtatious is of no interest to me. The savage urge is. No, this is not seduction. This is comedy. It is the comedy of creating a connection that is not the connection—that cannot begin to compete with the connection—created unartificially by lust. This is the instant conventionalizing, the giving us something in common on the spot, the trying to transform lust into something socially appropriate. Yet it's the radical inappropriateness that makes lust lust. No, this just plots the course, not forward but back to the elemental drive. Don't confuse the veiling with the business at hand. Sure, something else might develop, but that something has nothing to do with shopping for curtains and duvet covers and signing on as a member of the evolutionary team. The evolutionary system can work without me. I want to fuck this girl, and yes, I'll have to put up with some sort of veiling, but it's a means to an end. How much of this is cunning? I'd like to think that all of it is.

- Philip Roth, The Dying Animal

Pupils in the quatrième were allowed to join the film society, which held screenings every Thursday evening in the boys' assembly hall, though girls were allowed to attend. One night in December, just before Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror started, Bruno took the seat next to Caroline Yessayan. Toward the end of the film – having thought about it for more than an hour – he very gently placed his left hand on her thigh. For a few wonderful seconds (five? seven? surely no more than ten) nothing happened. She didn't move. Bruno felt a warm glow flood his body and thought he might faint. Then, without saying a word, she brushed his hand away. Years later – fairly often, actually – when some little whore was sucking him off, Bruno would remember those few seconds of terrifying joy; he also remembered the moment when Caroline Yessayan moved his hand away. What the boy had felt was something pure, something gentle, something that predates sex or sensual fulfillment. It was the simple desire to reach out and touch a loving body, to be held in loving arms. Tenderness is a deeper instinct than seduction, which is why it is so difficult to give up hope.

If Bruno had touched Caroline Yessayan's arm that evening, she almost certainly would have let him, and it probably would have been the beginning of something. While they were waiting in line, she had deliberately struck up a conversation and had kept a seat free to give him an opportunity to sit beside her. During the film, she had put her arm on the armrest between them. She had noticed Bruno before and she fancied him; that evening, she was hoping against hope that he would hold her hand. Vvlhy did Bruno touch her thigh? Probably because Caroline Yessayan's thigh was bare, and in his innocence he could not imagine it was bare for no reason. As he grew older and remembered his boyhood with disgust, he came to see this as the defining moment of his life. It all appeared to him in the light of cold and unchangeable fact. On that December evening in 1970, Caroline Yessayan had it in her power to undo all the humiliation and the sadness of his childhood. After this first failure (for after she gently removed his hand, he never spoke to her again), everything became much more difficult. Of course, it was not really Caroline Yessayan's fault. Rather the reverse: Caroline Yessayan – a little Armenian girl with doe eyes and long, curly black hair who had found herself, after endless family wranglings, among the dark and gloomy buildings of the boarding school in Meaux – Caroline Yessayan alone gave Bruno a reason to believe in humanity. If it all had ended in a terrible emptiness, it was because of something so trivial that it was grotesque. Thirty years later, Bruno was convinced that, taken in context, the episode could be summed up in one sentence: Carolin Yessayan's miniskirt was to blame for everything.

[...]

Things were very different for Annabelle. Last thing at night, before she went to sleep, she thought about Michel and every morning she was overjoyed to see him again. If something funny or interesting happened at school, her first thought was of the moment she could tell Michel about it. On days when they could not see each other for some reason, she was worried and upset. During the summer holidays (her family had a house in the Gironde), she wrote to him every day. The letters were more sisterly than passionate, and her feelings more a glow than a consuming fire, but even if she were reluctant to admit it to herself, the truth slowly dawned on her: on the first try, without looking, without really wanting to, she had found true love. Her first love was the real thing; there would not be another, and such a question did not even arise. It was a plausible scenario, according to Mademoiselle Âge Tendre, but one did well to be cautious as it almost never happened. There were, however, rare, almost miraculous cases that demonstrated it was possible. And if it happened to you it was the most wonderful thing in the whole world.
In the first stage (say, from twelve to eighteen), a girl would go out with several boys (the semantic ambivalence of the term reflected a very real behavioral ambiguity: what did going out with a boy actually mean? Did it mean kissing, or did it include the more profound joys of petting or of heavy petting, or even of full sexual intercourse? Should you allow a boy to touch your breasts? Should you take off your panties? And what should you do with his thing?) For Patricia Hohweiller and Caroline Yessayan the problem was far from simple; their favorite magazines gave vague, often contradictory answers. In the second stage (once she left high school), the same girl needed a serious relationship (referred to in German magazines as "big love"). Now the defining question was: "Should I move in with Jeremy?" This was the second and final stage. The flaw in the solution offered by girls' magazines – arbitrarily recommending contradictory forms of behavior in consecutive periods of a girl's life-only became apparent some years later with the inexorable rise in the divorce rate. Nevertheless, for many years girls, naïve and already disoriented by the speed of social change, accepted these improbable rules and tried their best to stick to them.

Things were very different for Annabelle. Last thing at night, before she went to sleep, she thought about Michel and every morning she was overjoyed to see him again. If something funny or interesting happened at school, her first thought was of the moment she could tell Michel about it. On days when they could not see each other for some reason, she was worried and upset. During the summer holidays (her family had a house in the Gironde), she wrote to him every day. The letters were more sisterly than passionate, and her feelings more a glow than a consuming fire, but even if she were reluctant to admit it to herself, the truth slowly dawned on her: on the first try, without looking, without really wanting to, she had found true love. Her first love was the real thing; there would not be another, and such a question did not even arise. It was a plausible scenario, according to Mademoiselle Âge Tendre, but one did well to be cautious as it almost never happened. There were, however, rare, almost miraculous cases that demonstrated it was possible. And if it happened to you it was the most wonderful thing in the whole world.


houellebecq - the elementary particles

It wouldn’t be love without opposition, would it? I mean, if Juliet’s dad had fallen on Romeo’s neck and said, ‘I’m not losing a daughter, I’m gaining a son, and Romeo’s mum had beamed ‘Welcome to the Montague family, Juliet my precious,’ it would be a pretty short play.
- Stephen Fry, The Stars' Tennis Balls

http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y10...doQuino005.jpg
- Quino

Consider: the darkening ease, the brightening trouble; the pleasure pleasure because it was, the pain pain because it shall be; the glad acts grown proud, the proud acts growing stubborn; the panting and trembling towards a being gone, a being to come; and the true true no longer, and the false true not yet. And to decide not to smile after all, sitting in the shade, hearing the cicadas, wishing it were night, wishing it were morning, saying, No, it is not the heart, no, it is not the liver, no, it is not the prostate, no, it is not the ovaries, no, it is muscular, it is nervous.

beckett - watt.

"Ding-dong. You look remarkably like dinner."

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Jacques Prévert
Le chat et l’oiseau

Un village écoute désolé
Le chant d'un oiseau blessé
C'est le seul oiseau du village
Et c'est le seul chat du village
Qui l'a à moitié dévoré
Et l'oiseau cesse de chanter
Le chat cesse de ronronner
Et de se lécher le museau
Et le village fait à l'oiseau
De merveilleuses funérailles
Et le chat qui est invité
Marche derrière le petit cercueil de paille
Où l'oiseau mort est allongé
Porté par une petite fille
Qui n'arrête pas de pleurer
Si j'avais su que cela te fasse tant de peine
Lui dit le chat
Je l'aurais mangé tout entier
Et puis je t'aurais raconté
Que je l'avais vu s'envoler
S'envoler juqu'au bout du monde
Là-bas où c'est tellement loin
Que jamais on en revient
Tu aurais eu moins de chagrin
Simplement de la tristesse et des regrets
Il ne faut jamais faire les choses à moitié."

Spoiler

A grieving village hears
The song of a wounded bird
It is the only bird of the village
And it is the only cat of the village
Who has half-eaten the bird
And the bird stops singing
And the cat stops purring
And licking his paw
And the village gives
The bird a marvellous funeral
And the cat who is invited
Walks behind the little straw casket
Where the bird is laid out
Carried by a little girl
Who never stops crying
"If I had known that this would make you feel so bad"
Says the cat to her
"I would have eaten all of him
And then I would have told you
That I had seen him fly away
Fly away to the end of the world
There where it is so far that
No one ever returns
You would have had less grief
Only sadness and regrets
One should never do things by halves."

παραείναι ρομαντικός ο κάμινγκς, ταμαγκόθι;

'So drives the acid nail of coloured pain
Into our vulnerable wood, earth-rooted,
And sends the red sap racing through the trees
Where slugged it lay, now spun with visions looted
From whining skies and cold Gethsemanes
Of hollow light, and all the wounds of Spain.'

-ο λουλάς.

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"Okay, look, here's the deal. Man, you were gonna drive me around tonight, never be the wiser, but El Gordo got in front of a window, did his high dive, we're into Plan B. Still breathing? Now we gotta make the best of it, improvise, adapt to the environment, Darwin, shit happens, I Ching, whatever man, we gotta roll with it."

-ποιός ξέρει.


ende nysta.