random unread texts from
Vladimir Nabokov
Vladimir Nabokov
April 5, 2012
April 3, 2012
blackhead (God)
But presently her life darkened. Something was finished, people were already getting up to leave. How quickly! Her father died, she moved to another street. She stopped seeing her friends, knitted the little bonnets in fashion, and gave cheap French lessons at some ladies’ club or other. In this way her life dragged on to the age of thirty.
March 28, 2012
sickbeauty on Flickr.
Today I understood the beauty of intersecting wires in the sky, and the hazy mosaic of factory chimneys, and this rusty tin with its inside-out, semidetached, serrated lid.
March 28, 2012
birdonpink on Flickr.
Today I understood the beauty of intersecting wires in
the sky, and the hazy mosaic of factory chimneys, and this
rusty tin with its inside-out, semidetached, serrated lid.
March 28, 2012
His right eye was still in the shadows, the left peered at me timorously, elongated, smoky-green. The pupil glowed like a point of rust…. That mossy-gray tuft on his temple, the pale-silver, scarcely noticeable eyebrow, the comical wrinkle near his whiskerless mouth—-how all this teased and vaguely vexed my memory!
March 12, 2012
Everything seemed blurred, yellow-clouded, yielding nothing tangible. Her inept acrostics, maudlin evasions, theopathies - every recollection formed ripples of mysterious meaning. Everything seemed yellowly blurred, illusive, lost.
February 27, 2012
February 23, 2012
All colors made me happy: even gray.
My eyes were such that literally they
Took photographs.
January 26, 2012
He heaved a deep sigh, and once again I had visions of billowing nimbus, lofty leafy undulations, bright flashes of birch bark like splashes of sea foam, against a dulcet, perpetual, hum….
January 24, 2012
apreslude on Flickr.
Into the harsh light of its gaudily carpeted space a masked giant, fully eight feet tall, erupted, running strongly in the kind of soft boots worn by Cossack dancers.
January 19, 2012
Viewing the past graphically, I see our mangled romance engulfed in a deep valley of mist between the crags of two matter-of-fact mountains: life had been real before, life will be real from now on, I hope.
December 6, 2011
No, it can’t be: I’m alone…. It’s only some capricious delirium. Yet there really was somebody sitting next to me, bony and implausible, with long-eared German bootees, and his voice tintinnabulated, rustled—golden, luscious-green, familiar—while the words were so simple, so human….
December 1, 2011
She considered him. A fiery droplet in the wick of her mouth considered him. A three-colored velvet violet, of which she had done an aquarelle on the eve, considered him from its fluted crystal. She said nothing. She licked her spread fingers, still looking at him.
November 11, 2011
Oh, how clear was the image of that cool, empty, spacious hall and how difficult it was to find it! ‘Let’s try this door here,’ he said. The door proved to be locked. He pressed the handle down several times. ‘Who’s there?’ a hoarse voice said abruptly, and a bed creaked. ‘Mistake, mistake,
October 7, 2011
For the fourth time in as many years they were confronted with the problem of what birthday present to bring a young man who was incurably deranged in his mind. He had no desires. Man-made objects were to him either hives of evil, vibrant with a malignant activity that he alone could perceive, or gross comforts for which no use could be found in his abstract world.
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Francis Picabia (1879-1953) - Transparence, N/D
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V. Sereni
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Isamu Noguchi “Ooi Kojo” for Bonniers , c. 1950
Wether it was a one-off sculpture or design for mass production there’s such an...
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No hawk by fanzinepaper on Flickr.
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The Conversation by Quentin Blake.
Found here.
