on dry thighbones but on blood-ripe lives, And our best yesterdays are now foul piles Of crumpled names, phone numbers and foxed files.
She looked around, loosened her bra, and turned over on her stomach to give her back a chance to be feasted upon. She said she loved me. She sighed deeply.
I broke her spell by incarnating her in another
I will never go back. For the simple reason that all the Russia I need, after all, is with me–always with me. Her literature, her language, my own Russian childhood. I will never return, I will never surrender.
Zembla is a site devoted to the life and works of author, translator, and lepidopterist.
The day, like the previous days, dragged sluggishly by in a kind of insipid idleness, devoid even of that dreamy expectancy which can make idleness so enchanting.
Don’t touch me; I’ll die if you touch me.
And now, said Ada, Van is going to stop being vulgar-I
mean, stop forever! Because I had and have and shall always
have only one beau, only one beast, only one sorrow, only one joy.
Life is just one small piece of light between two eternal darknesses.
Somehow, too, I remembered Chichikov’s round of weird visits in Gogol’s “Dead Souls.