I think we ought to only read the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we’re reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for? … But we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us. That is my belief.

Franz Kafka to Oskar Pollak, 1904 in The Art of Hunger by Paul Auster (via geethageetha)

(via calllunavulgaris)

Staunch friend, a brother soul: Wilde’s love that dare not speak its name. His arm: Cranly’s arm. He now will leave me. And the blame? As I am. As I am. All or not at all.

James Joyce, Ulysses, 3.450-453

So all the while reading Bloom’s monologuing I have been thinking of Dedalus. Since it has been slow-going the last few days and I haven’t come across anything that has amazed me for a while, here he is again, and the quote that won’t leave me.

Were you the Rimbaud blog?

I accidently unfollowed one of my followers last night (I think). I tried looking for you to rectify my mistake, but alas. You had a thing for Rimbaud and interesting images and poetry. If this sounds like you send me a message and we can begin anew. If it wasn’t you, but this sounds like you, send me a message, I could do with more Rimbaud/poetry/imagery in my dash!

(Apologies everyone else. I’ve been distracted the last couple of days, as evidenced by above. I’ll get back to spamming you with Joyce and stop with the ridiculous soon enough.)