Self-contempt wrecks everything, turns people into ruins, causes decay. Unfortunately self-content is eternal, the more you try to diminish it the bigger it grows. It always comes back until it dies with you. It precedes your death actually, perhaps by only minutes, when it’s too late to go back and live your entire life without fake, self-constructed hierarchies.– Page read by DEVON GLOVER (www.thesonnetmannyc.com).
Posts tagged compeyson
I’m worried about forgetting. What matters are not places or moments, just how graceful you remain until time makes repugnance to people melt away. You must remember to keep great constancy in being affectionate though, otherwise your wet and decayed stockings will reveal that you were as average as every other drowned person lost in their watery graves.– Page read by PAUL FREED.
On those situations when I pretend not to see someone, and they pretend not to see me: a deserter scatters and divulges himself out of fear and in spite of it. In the surrender to himself, he will be ruined and wrecked.
What’s my narrative? I don’t know. Today I abhor the turpitude of my dreams last night, which were crowded with syrupy specters that were burning my eyes while I was trying to escape the puppet theater of my bodily existence. But tomorrow’s narrative, who knows? In fact, everything may change right after breakfast.
The time has gone through the garbage disposal, and with it the corrupted memories. I turned the switch on so the detritus goes down the drain, all the way to the sewage, where it belongs, washed away with someone’s putrid bodily fluids. it has slipped through without a trace. I don’t even remember what this writing is about.
I confronted a stranger once on the street. I noticed my blood rushing to my head and at the same time I got frozen. I didn’t have any mobility. Right after I felt pain in my heart. My lungs hurt, my chest was sore. I felt I needed to inhale as much air as possible and retained it for as long as possible.
We hoard our existence with so many chores and routines that we reach a point when we need someone else to do that tedious and mindless job for us. But once that happens, it is practically impossible to ever take that ability back. We become less and less functional, more and more dependent. It’s a way of aging quickly.
A critical edition of a book is a regular edition of the book itself with scholarly responses to it and other information useful to better understanding the text. Thanks to a critical edition of Great Expectations I learn what a “miniature windmill” really is.
This is the first time we meet Compeyson, the man who abandons Miss Havisham on her wedding day. He is the example of everything that was wrong with London at that time. He uses social status to get him out of trouble, and uses friendship and love for his own personal gains. Have things changed that much since then?