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Read through the most famous quotes by topic #beau
...but it does involve a woman. A beautiful, lying, conniving, voluptuous, sexy as hell, witch of a woman, one who has in an inconceivably short amount of time wormed her way so deeply into my very soul—yes, soul, try though you do to convince yourselves that I have none—and not all the dog-desperate clawing can wrench my being free of her. All night long I dominated her body, only to find myself conquered by her. I battled and battered at her, bathed my seed upon her thighs, drew my breaths from between her breasts and yet I drowned. I bound her, only to find myself thoroughly ensnared. My life is gone! Everything I have worked for…everything that I am has, for the sake of pride, boredom, a fine pair of tits and an ass unparalleled by any other known to man—indeed, on the face of this whole miserable planet!—has been utterly destroyed.” “Women,” Jackson commiserated. “You have no idea. I’m doomed. ↗
GUYS! Would you give it a rest?" Kevin shouted at them, "You're standing there feeding off each other! Dad – you're trying to prove to Ted why me and Dani are a Bad Thing – because you just can't bring yourself to admit that it isn't, even though you can SEE that it isn't! You know it! And Ted – you're pushing my dad's buttons on purpose because you're not so sure yourself how you really feel about us - her, me, any of it! So both of ya just SHUT THE HELL UP!" He turned back towards Dani, "Dani – you're beautiful and I love you – but this wasn't one of your best ideas. Now everyone just be quiet while I hit the stupid little white ball and make it go into the stupid little round hole! GAWD!" All three of them stared at Kevin while he swung. The stupid little white ball flew straight and high, and landed on the green. Apparently a little focus – no matter what it was directed towards – was just what Kevin needed. ↗
I Go Back to May 1937 I see them standing at the formal gates of their colleges, I see my father strolling out under the ochre sandstone arch, the red tiles glinting like bent plates of blood behind his head, I see my mother with a few light books at her hip standing at the pillar made of tiny bricks with the wrought-iron gate still open behind her, its sword-tips black in the May air, they are about to graduate, they are about to get married, they are kids, they are dumb, all they know is they are innocent, they would never hurt anybody. I want to go up to them and say Stop, don't do it--she's the wrong woman, he's the wrong man, you are going to do things you cannot imagine you would ever do, you are going to do bad things to children, you are going to suffer in ways you never heard of, you are going to want to die. I want to go up to them there in the late May sunlight and say it, her hungry pretty blank face turning to me, her pitiful beautiful untouched body, his arrogant handsome blind face turning to me, his beautiful untouched body, but I don't do it. I want to live. I take them up like the male and female paper dolls and bang them together at the hips like chips of flint as if to strike sparks from them, I say Do what you are going to do, and I will tell about it. ↗
Poem for My Father You closed the door. I was on the other side, screaming. It was black in your mind. Blacker than burned-out fire. Blacker than poison. Outside everything looked the same. You looked the same. You walked in your body like a living man. But you were not. would you not speak to me for weeks would you hang your coat in the closet without saying hello would you find a shoe out of place and beat me would you come home late would i lose the key would you find my glasses in the garbage would you put me on your knee would you read the bible to me in your smoking jacket after your mother died would you come home drunk and snore would you beat me on the legs would you carry me up the stairs by my hair so that my feet never touch the bottom would you make everything worse to make everything better i believe in god, the father almighty, the maker of heaven, the maker of my heaven and my hell. would you beat my mother would you beat her till she cries like a rabbit would you beat her in a corner of the kitchen while i am in the bathroom trying to bury my head underwater would you carry her to the bed would you put cotton and alcohol on her swollen head would you make love to her hair would you caress her hair would you rub her breasts with ben gay until she stinks would you sleep in the other room in the bed next to me while she sleeps on the pull-out cot would you come on the sheet while i am sleeping. later i look for the spot would you go to embalming school with the last of my mother's money would i see your picture in the book with all the other black boys you were the handsomest would you make the dead look beautiful would the men at the elks club would the rich ladies at funerals would the ugly drunk winos on the street know ben pretty ben regular ben would your father leave you when you were three with a mother who threw butcher knives at you would he leave you with her screaming red hair would he leave you to be smothered by a pillow she put over your head would he send for you during the summer like a rich uncle would you come in pretty corduroys until you were nine and never heard from him again would you hate him would you hate him every time you dragged hundred pound cartons of soap down the stairs into white ladies' basements would you hate him for fucking the woman who gave birth to you hate him flying by her house in the red truck so that other father threw down his hat in the street and stomped on it angry like we never saw him (bye bye to the will of grandpa bye bye to the family fortune bye bye when he stompled that hat, to the gold watch, embalmer's palace, grandbaby's college) mother crying silently, making floating island sending it up to the old man's ulcer would grandmother's diamonds close their heartsparks in the corner of the closet yellow like the eyes of cockroaches? Old man whose sperm swims in my veins, come back in love, come back in pain. ↗
He hoped and feared,' continued Solon, in a low. mournful voice; 'but at times he was very miserable, because he did not think it possible that so much happiness was reserved for him as the love of this beautiful, innocent girl. At night, when he was in bed, and all the world was dreaming, he lay awake looking up at the old books against the walls, thinking how he could bring about the charming of her heart. One night, when he was thinking of this, he suddenly found himself in a beautiful country, where the light did not come from sun or moon or stars, but floated round and over and in everything like the atmosphere. On all sides he heard mysterious melodies sung by strangely musical voices. None of the features of the landscape was definite; yet when he looked on the vague harmonies of colour that melted one into another before his sight he was filled with a sense of inexplicable beauty. On every side of him fluttered radiant bodies, which darted to and fro through the illuminated space. They were not birds, yet they flew like birds; and as each one crossed the path of his vision he felt a strange delight flash through his brain, and straightaway an interior voice seemed to sing beneath the vaulted dome of his temples a verse containing some beautiful thought. Little fairies were all this time dancing and fluttering around him, perching on his head, on his shoulders, or balancing themselves on his fingertips. 'Where am I?' he asked. 'Ah, Solon?' he heard them whisper, in tones that sounded like the distant tinkling of silver bells, "this land is nameless; but those who tread its soil, and breathe its air, and gaze on its floating sparks of light, are poets forevermore.' Having said this, they vanished, and with them the beautiful indefinite land, and the flashing lights, and the illumined air; and the hunchback found himself again in bed, with the moonlight quivering on the floor, and the dusty books on their shelves, grim and mouldy as ever.' ("The Wondersmith") ↗
#fairyland #fantastique #poet #poetry #vision
...for example, if Freud is wrong, as i and many others believe, where does that leave any number of novels and virtually the entire corpus of surrealism, Dada, and certain major forms of expressionism and abstraction, not to mention Richard Strauss' 'Freudian' operas such as Salome and Elektra, and the iconic novels of numerous writers such as D.H. Lawrence, Franz Kafka, Thomas Mann and Virginia Woolf? It doesn't render these works less beautiful or pleasurable, necessarily, but it surely dilutes their meaning. They don't owe their entire existence to psychoanalysis. But if they are robbed of a large part of their meaning, can they retain their intellectual importance and validity? Or do they become period pieces? I stress the point because the novels, paintings and operas referred to above have helped to popularise and legitimise a certain view of human nature, one that is, all evidence to the contrary lacking, wrong. ↗
#kafka #thomas-mann #woolf #beauty
Fuck hope and all the tiny little towns, one-horse towns, the one-stoplight towns, three-bars country-music jukebox-magic parquet-towns, pressure-cooker pot-roast frozen-peas bad-coffee married-heterosexual towns, crying-kids-in-the-Oldsmobile-beat-your-kid-in the-Thriftway-aisles towns, one-bank one-service-station Greyhound-Bus-stop-at-the-Pepsi-Cafe towns, two-television towns, Miracle Mile towns, Viv's Double Wide Beauty Salon towns, schizophrenic-mother towns, buy-yourself-a-handgun towns, sister-suicide towns, only-Injun's-a-dead-Injun towns, Catholic-Protestant-Mormon-Baptist religious-right five-churches Republican-trickle-down-to-poverty family-values sexual-abuse pro-life creation-theory NRA towns, nervous-mother rodeo-clown-father those little-town-blues towns. ↗
For the few months that I was living vicariously through wine I came to the conclusion that what my heart desired reflected it’s damage; that I’m too spoiled to be eaten, I can’t live with not knowing how strange tongues taste, And that sometimes we’re all a kind of mosaic of feeling. There was one night in particular: Outside, I lit my cigarette and cuddled with it. You stood up with your back against the hard light that gave you the halo of a pseudo angel and Whisked me up like I was broken. I wasn’t. Was I to feel that in your touch I was but a million little pieces? Is that what you wanted? Were your weird intentions golden? The wine did the talking when I couldn’t say how much I didn’t understand your inner workings Perchance you’d try to explain. This was the same night the clock broke after I finally coughed out my distain for Your laziness, your lack of responsibility, your growing pains (even though you weren’t growing) and I think you kissed me to shut me up (even though the wine said it was love). I froze for a while. In time’s absence I studied you instead of my books. Each advancement in knowing you an even bigger advancement in the theory that I had That you were the opposite of beautiful. We are the artists of our mosaics. We choose its pallet and if your heart screams red, then blues and yellows will become the peripheries. You were muted with the desire for playing with the Colours you couldn’t make. The wine made me realize that what was broken didn’t require your mending that wine was the only way you could be anything but cowardly. ↗
How beautiful to dream. But dreams, I tell Gil, in one of our quiet moments are so damned tiring. He laughs. I can't promise you that you won't be tired, he says. But please know this. There's a lot of good waiting for you on the other side of tired. Get yourself tired, Andre. That's where you're going to know yourself. On the other side of tired. ↗
