Cain considers life and can find no explanation for it, there is that woman, who although clearly sick with desire is enjoying postponing the moment of surrender, which is not at all the right word, because lilith, when she does finally open her legs to allow herself to be penetrated, will not be surrendering, but trying to devour the man to whom she said, Enter.
By Cain, José Saramago
At every step, every gust of wind, I’d like to be able to say ‘Now..’, no longer ‘forever’ and ‘for eternity’. To take the empty seat at a card game and be greeted by others, even if just with a nod. It would be nice to come home after a long day and feed the cat like Philip Marlowe, or to have a fever, or get your fingers black by the newspaper. To be excited not just by the mind, but by a meal, the curve of a neck. To lie! Through one’s teeth! To feel your bones as you walk along. For once just to guess instead of always knowing…
Over the course of ten years, Kagawa-based photographer Toshiteru Yamaji captured the special bond between Japanese pig farmer Otchan and his 1,200 pigs. As you can tell by these photos, he cared for each individual pig in a loving and caring way. In Yamaji’s book Pigs and Papa, watch as the cigarette smoking, beer drinking man becomes like their proud papa as he reads the newspaper to the pigs and plays music to them on his guitar.
He was sick, yes, and in a sense the story of my friendship with him is simply that I loved a person who was mentally ill. The depressed person then killed himself, in a way calculated to inflict maximum pain on those he loved most, and we who loved him were left feeling angry and betrayed. Betrayed not merely by the failure of our investment of love but by the way in which his suicide took the person away from us and made him into a very public legend. People who had never read his fiction, or had never even heard of him, read his Kenyon College commencement address in the Wall Street Journal and mourned the loss of a great and gentle soul. A literary establishment that had never so much as short-listed one of his books for a national prize now united to declare him a lost national treasure. Of course, he was a national treasure, and, being a writer, he didn’t ‘belong’ to his readers any less than to me. But if you happened to know that his actual character was more complex and dubious than he was getting credit for, and if you also knew that he was more lovable—funnier, sillier, needier, more poignantly at war with his demons, more lost, more childishly transparent in his lies and inconsistencies—than the benignant and morally clairvoyant artist/saint that had been made of him, it was still hard not to feel wounded by the part of him that had chosen the adulation of strangers over the love of the people closest to him.
By Jonathan Franzen on the death and public immortalization of David Foster Wallace (via kierkatgaardsmeow)