Happiest Atheist

You will save yourself. You cannot help it.

Jean Dubuffet, Barbu à Lunettes, 1944 (via gatakka)

One does not find solitude, one creates it. Solitude is created alone. I have created it. Because I decided that here was where I should be alone, that I would be alone to write books. It happened this way. I was alone in this house. I shut myself in—of course, I was afraid. And then I began to love it. This house became the house of writing. My books come from this house. From this light as well, and from the garden. From the light reflecting off the pond. It has taken me twenty years to write what I just said.

If you have yet to be called an incorrigable, defiant woman, don’t worry, there is still time.

We were dancing—it must have been a foxtrot or a waltz, something romantic but requiring restraint, rise and fall, precise execution as we moved into the next song without stopping, two chests heaving above a seven-league stride—such perfect agony, one learns to smile through, ecstatic mimicry being the sine qua non of American Smooth. And because I was distracted by the effort of keeping my frame (the leftward lean, head turned just enough to gaze out past your ear and always smiling, smiling), I didn’t notice how still you’d become until we had done it (for two measures? four?)—achieved flight, that swift and serene magnificence, before the earth remembered who we were and brought us down. 

Beyond the seas there is a city where the windows Only open towards light.              

It’s not going to happen overnight. But one of these days I’ll arrive…

We are in the interstices. In the intervals. We are that which moves between the spaces. Which conjures up the spaces.