Does there exist a pleasure in writing? I don’t know. One thing is certain, that there is, I think, a very strong obligation to write. I don’t really know where this obligation to write comes from … You are made aware of it in a number of different ways. For example, by the fact that you feel extremely anxious and tense when you haven’t done your daily page of writing. In writing this page you give yourself and your existence a kind of absolution. This absolution is indispensable for the happiness of the day… How is it that this gesture which is so vain, so fictitious, so narcissistic, so turned in on itself and which consists of sitting down every morning at one’s desk and scrawling over a certain number of blank pages can have this effect of benediction on the rest of the day? …
You write so that the life you have around you, and outside, far from the sheet of paper, this life which is not much fun, but annoying and full of worries, exposed to others, can melt into the little rectangle before you and of which you are the master. But this absorption of swarming life into the immobile swarming of letters never happens.
"Michel Foucault on writing
Jim Rohn (via missrenaaa)
(via youknowthatimeantit)
I just finished reading ‘The Queen of the South’ by Arturo Pérez-Reverte. I’ve been reading a lot lately and that is my excuse for such a long time without posting stories here. Yes, yes, I know, don’t throw anything at me yet because all this reading is nourishing me like I never thought it would.
Still, if you don’t believe me, here’s a small paragraph from that novel that I loved to the point of copying it for your knowledge. And don’t judge me for reading a book because of a Telemundo soap opera, we all know books are a thousand times better than their TV or film realizations.
So, here you go, a piece from a battle that is fought at a house where Teresa Mendoza is staying in accompanied by her very loyal bodyguard Potemkin Gálvez in Colonia Chapultepec.
Cabrones! she hears him scream, cabrones! and she realizes that something is going wrong, maybe he’s been hit, or maybe she has, maybe she herself is dying right now and doesn’t know it. But her right hand keeps squeezing the trigger, boom, boom, and she thinks, If I’m shooting I must be alive. I shoot, therefore I am.
I shoot, therefore I am.
I shoot, therefore I am.
You bet I’m gonna stick to that as a new motto! Thanks Arturo!!
Mark Twain