This one may begin like this:
I went to the nearby library the other day to finally put my hands on one of the classics spelled with a capital C – Don Quixote. Determined to disdain the numerous translations of Cervantes’ masterpiece, which have effectively prevented
The writing of a novel is a form of the loss of creative liberty…. In turn, the reviewing of books is a servitude still less noble. Of the writer one can at least say that he has enslaved himself – by the theme selected. The
Two is the beginning of the /beginning/.
James Matthew Barrie /slightly purified/
Yes, the publication date in parentheses is correct. I have dared to leave the safe zone of our beloved 80’s for the conceptual sake of presenting you two texts about two books which are radiant
The missing All – prevented Me
From missing minor Things.
It is an hypothesis that the sun will rise tomorrow: and this means that we do not know whether it will rise.
One of the least frequent reasons we grab the spine of a book while rummaging through shelves of either a library or a bookstore is the sole sight of the title. Now this may seem a bit strange but at first glance only. Most of
Philip K. Dick. What more can be possibly said about this outlandish individual when there have already been tens of fountain pens emptied, hundreds of typewriters jammed and thousands of keyboards broken in two over his bizarre "precise-adjectives-proof" prose? Not to mention millions of film
Half past Noon obliterates itself in favor of quarter to none. We are stranded in the middle of this indecipherable lucifer-ish hour which indicates neither the imminent necessity of dawn nor the continuous perseverance of night. Our weary eyes are fixed with hazy gazes, our
'We're all just out there, somewhere, waiting to /re/happen'
Scribble /slightly purified/
Three out of four. Numerals taking charge of verbs, adjectives, adverbs, their syntactic combinations and unsystematically anti-semantic disjunctions. Then a sudden explosiveness of succulency overthrows them all without the slightest throe of hesitation, conscience or
‘The artist, you see, must travel backwards in time. To become, once again, a child of dreams.’
Welcome to the second chapter of prequelo-sequelling adventures in Noonland! Last time we embarked on a delicious temporal escapade with Alice Liddell and Celia Hobart to 1998 and
Today we are going to dance. The party starts at noon sharp and is scheduled to end – if at all – well beyond each and every until of eternity.
I do not want to begin another text using one of the three most predictable openings – a rhetorical question, a quote and an anecdote – but I am afraid I will have to sign a Faustian pact with one of these three devils once
In a vast realm of anecdotes, being nothing more than just another floor of a multi-story edifice called “Life” (not necessarily the top one, neither the floor per se – it is probably more like an alcove so obvious in its presence, that we no