August 2012
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Fragment 23
Like a sweet-apple turning red high on the tip of the topmost branch. Forgotten by pickers.
Not forgotten— they couldn’t reach it.
Sappho
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“The meaning of my thoughts started to float away from me, like leaves that fall...”
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Jonathan Safran Foer | Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
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i-kweem asked: Favorite books?
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The Stranger
Tell me, enigmatic man, whom do you love beet? Your father, your mother, your sister, or your brother?
“I have neither father, nor mother, nor sister, nor brother.”
Your friends, then?
“You use a word that until now has had no meaning for me.”
Your country?
“I am ignorant of the latitude in which it is situated.”
Then Beauty?
“Her I would love...
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“There was always work to be done. We spent our lives making livings.”
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Jonathan Safran Foer | Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
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Vestibule
What etiquette holds us back from more intimate speech, especially now, at the end of the world? Can’t we begin a conversation here in the vestibule, then gradually move it inside? What holds us back from saying things outright? We’ve killed the earth. Yet we speak of other things. Our words should cauterize all wounds to the truth.
Chase Twichell
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“I put my hand on him. Touching him was always so important to me. It was...”
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Jonathan Safran Foer | Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
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The Face
Is there a single thing in nature that can approach in mystery the absolute uniqueness of any human face, first, then its transformation from childhood to old age— We are surrounded at every instant by sights that ought to strike the sane unbenumbed person tongue-tied, mute with gratitude and terror. However, there may be three sane people on earth at any given time: and if you got the chance to...
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“Maybe that’s what a person’s personality is: the difference between...”
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Jonathan Safran Foer | Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
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The House Was Quiet and the World Was Calm
The house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book; and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book. The house was quiet and the world was calm. The words were spoken as if there was no book, Except that the reader leaned above the page, Wanted to lean, wanted much to be The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom The summer night is like a perfection of thought....
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“Literature was the only religion her father practiced, when a book fell on the...”
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Jonathan Safran Foer | Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
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Getting There
We go. Simply because it’s there for us to go to. Walk on the surface, having to raise dust where we never were. And say we did it. Finding excuses. We need to own them. Crusts of other worlds. Carrying flags and chocolate, comforts of home. Whatever density we pass through, pulsing an odd, we stake our claim to, leaving our garbage, giving names. In our own language. Nothing can stop us...
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