Sylvia and Ted “interrupted in a spat,” Chalot Square, London, July 25, 1960 photographed by Hans Beacham for a portfolio of images of British writers
"They were sullen. Hughes was rude. He was going to get more attention than she, and she didn’t like that while he did. He invited me outside and told me I needed to know that he loathed photographers". Hughes particularly wanted to keep Plath out of the way. "His wish, of course, forced me to photograph them together", Beacham said; and later; Hughes acknowledged that he had been "an ogre."
—Diane Middlebrook, Her Husband: Hughes and Plath-a Marriage, 2003
And a softness came from the starlight and filled me full to the bone.
Some griefs can never be put right.
—Anthony Doerr, All The Light We Cannot See
We are busy imitating machines.
I’m done. destroyed.
With special regard to unreality, I shrug in silence. I am not scared. I love this fully conscious imprisonment in unreality; it somehow makes me romanticize with something sensuously genuine. Oh it’s another self-trap; you know best. Yet there is something very consoling, very personal in it. I am constructing my reality with unreal, otherworldly materials. It is almost poetic; this outstanding self-manipulation. (I am rather scared to death.)
LITERATURE MEME ( 2/10 PROSE + LOLITA - VLADIMIR NABOKOV)
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita. Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, an initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.
I do better with meditation when I don’t let my expectations get in the way. I used to worry that I wasn’t breathing in the right way, and I’d get anxious and pulled out of the meditation. I eventually figured out that just paying attention to my breath is enough. Similarly, with immersive reading, I’m open to whatever the experience will be. I just pay attention and the language reveals itself. I used to think that meditation meant emptying my mind, but I learned that the mind is designed to think, and I can’t stop it from doing its job. Meditation is more about just paying attention to the thoughts than trying to grab up the positive ones and banish the negative ones. I think immersive reading is like that.
People who read are people who dream, and we connect through the stories we live and tell and read
İnsanlığın yıldızının parladığı anlar… Zweig yazdı, biz üstüne yenilerini eklemeyi başaramadık.