Tea Trees near Cape Schanck, Victoria (detail), Eugène von Guérard, 1865
Even when reading is impossible, the presence of books acquired produces such an ecstasy that the buying of more books than one can read is nothing less than the soul reaching towards infinity. We cherish books even if unread, there mere presence exudes comfort, their ready access reassurance.
Watched L’Apollonide: Souvenirs de la Maison Clos last night.
Lush, lush, lush. Painterly. Kick-ass soundtrack. A sexy, ghastly film.
The bourgeoisie loves so-called “positive” types and novels with happy endings since they lull one into thinking that it is fine to simultaneously acquire capital and maintain one’s innocence, to be a beast and still be happy.
Portrait Study of a Lady, (detail), by James Archer.
How stupid not to be able to speak to her. She looked so kind. She looked so unhappy. Why couldn’t two unhappy people refresh each other on their way through this dusty business of life by a little talk, - real, natural talk, about what they felt, what they would have liked, what they still tried to hope?