our period is obsessed by the desire to forget, and
it is to fulfill that desire that it gives over to the
demon of speed; it picks up the pace to show us
that it no longer wishes to be remembered; that it
is tired of itself; sick of itself; that it wants to blow
out the tiny trembling flame of memory.
It’s a wonderful thing, for half an hour, to have money in your pocket and piss it away like a drunken sailor. You feel as though the
world is yours. And the best part of it is, you don’t know what to do with it. You can sit back and let the meter run wild, you can let the wind blow through your hair, you can stop and have a drink, you can give a big tip, and you can swagger off as though it were an everyday occurrence.
But you can’t create a revolution. You can’t wash all the dirt out of your belly.
So in other news:
Another of my beloved lists is ready (although always in progress, it at least reached 100 items now) so I present to you, the favorite paintings, 100 of them:
I’ll make sure it’ll be updated often and for even more expirience of colors and figures check our tumblr:
And the other lists are
-100 movie frames -> http://quotily.wordpress.com/favorites-rankings/100-favorite-movie-frames/
All evolving, more to come soon. Also I’ll try to make them more visual attractive in a while.
Have a good sunday! And feel free to copy.
And this malady, which was Swann’s love, had so far multiplied, was so closely interwoven with all his habits, with all his actions, with his thoughts, his health, his sleep, his life, even with what he hoped for after his death, was so entirely one with him that it would have been impossible to wrest it away without almost entirely destroying him; as surgeons say, his case was past operation.
Et cette maladie qu’était l’amour de Swann avait tellement multiplié, il était si étroitement mêlé à toutes les habitudes de Swann, à tous ses actes, à sa pensée, à sa santé, à son sommeil, à sa vie, même à ce qu’il désirait pour après sa mort, il ne faisait tellement plus qu’un avec lui, qu’on n’aurait pas pu l’arracher de lui sans le détruire lui-même à peu près tout entier: comme on dit en chirurgie, son amour n’était plus opérable.