and all of this is drawing a picture, a pattern, something nonexistent like you and me, like two points lost in Paris that go from here to there, from there to here, drawing their picture, putting on a dance for nobody, not even for themselves, an interminable pattern without any meaning.  — cortazar, rayuela merry […]

¿Cómo puedo no conocer hoy tu rostro mañana, el que ya está o se fragua bajo la cara que enseñas o bajo la careta que llevas, y que me mostrarás tan sólo cuando no lo espere? How can I not know today your face tomorrow, the face that is there already or is being forged […]

boy and (?) girl

yesterday, while looking up a type of dress mentioned in madame bovary, i came across a wikipedia article about the breeching of boys.  the following is an example of the awesome dress boys used to wear.  the original caption read “Boston, 1755-1760, boy and (?) girl”. oh, the gems the internet will throw at you […]

She had no mercy.  He looked at her neck and thought how he would like to jab it with the knife he had for his muffin.  He knew enough anatomy to make pretty certain of getting the carotid artery.  And at the same time he wanted to cover her pale, thin face with kisses. — […]

the end of the story

lydia davis is someone you might characterize as a writer’s writer.  or a critic’s writer.  each of her collections of short stories is consistently received with high critical acclaim and praise; yet, she’s not “popular”, even by literature standards.  you could say that delillo, pynchon, roth, munro – these are “popular” “serious” north american authors. […]