The Part With The (W)Hole

God Almighty! She was unutterably lovely. Her beauty stung him. He sat there, her scorpion’s caress paralyzing him with rapture, her venom warming his blood. Who on earth was this girl?

— Marc Behm

I didn’t believe her life was in danger, but with a beautiful, naked girl beside you, dripping water and banging you over the head, you do what she says, if for no other reason than to make her shut up.

— James M. Cain

She did lead him to her chamber instantly and did there refuse him naught of all he was fain to have of her.

— Anatole France

Then, very slowly, Susan moved her right hand and let it trail down his body. He felt the grasp of her hand; its hot palm and fingers were hungry and questing.

— Malcolm Corris

It was as if she wanted to claw and chew me open and crawl inside of me, and if you think that’s bad, take my word for it, it’s good.

— Elliott Chaze

This is the Shakti or Divine Grace by which the transcendental Supreme is active in the infinite world. It is typified as His bride, and though distinct from Him is connected with Him in samavaya union as e.g. the part with the whole.

— L.D. Barnett

The apparently fundamental separation between the real and the ideal is but tentative and provisional, a moment in a process.

— T.S. Eliot

It all started as an experiment. I held the blunt, unarticulated belief that meaning and transcendence could be shaken from the world, like unripe fruit from a tree; then consumed.

— Elizabeth Hand

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Gabba Gabba Hey!

Hey, I found this in a book at the library sale — if it’s yours — tough luck!

He showed me the record cover. The Ramones. They looked like four white dirtbags who should have their hands against the wall and their legs spread out.

Look at this album. They dress like degenerates and name their songs “Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue?” There’s no socially redeeming value to it.

— from One Red Bastard by Ed Lin.

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The Tease

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The Romance of Old Books

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Get Happy 8

Desire in the beginning came upon it

Which was the first seed of Thought

The root of Being in not-Being was found

By sages tracing it with understanding in their hearts.

— Rig-Veda

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Sabrina and Her Nymphs

by William Etty

  • Date painted: 1841

This is what happens to nymphs: they are pursued or they are left. Sometimes, like Echo, they are fled. We turn to trees, seabirds, seafoam, running water, the sound of wind in the leaves. Men come to stay with us, they lie beside us in the night, they hold us so hard we can’t breathe. They walk in the woods and glimpse us: a diving kingfish, an owl caught in the headlights, a cold spring on the hillside. Alcyone, Nyctimene, Peirene, Echo, Calypso: these are some of our names. We like to live alone, or think we do. When men find us, they say we are lovelier than anything they have ever seen; wilder, stranger, more passionate; elemental. They say they will stay forever. They always leave.

— Elizabeth Hand

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Shannon Stewart 2

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This comment sort of made sense — for a second…

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Galatea

DORIGNY, Louis.

Galatea, whiter than the snowy privet petals,

 taller than slim alder, more flowery than the meadows,

 friskier than a tender kid, more radiant than crystal,

 smoother than the shells, polished, by the endless tides;

 more welcome than the summer shade, or the sun in winter,

 showier than the tall plane-tree, fleeter than the hind; 

 more than ice sparkling, sweeter than grapes ripening,

 softer than the swan’s-down, or the milk when curdled,

 lovelier, if you did not flee, than a watered garden.

 

Galatea, likewise, wilder than an untamed heifer,

harder than an ancient oak, trickier than the sea;

tougher than the willow-twigs, or the white vine branches,

firmer than these cliffs, more turbulent than a river,

vainer than the vaunted peacock, fiercer than the fire;

more truculent than a pregnant bear, pricklier than thistles,

deafer than the waters, crueller than a trodden snake;

oh, what I wish I could alter in you, most of all, is this:

that you are swifter than the deer, driven by loud barking,

swifter even than the winds, and the passing breeze.

 — Ovid

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Quodlibet 1

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