this then? this is not a book. this is a libel, slander defamation of character. this is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty...what you will.
twilight hour. Indian blue, water of glass, trees glistering and liquiscent.
there are people who cannot resist the desire to get into a cage with wild beasts and be mangled. They go in even whithout revolver or whip. Fear makes them fearless....
standing there alone and helpless, the door locked, he finds that the lions do not understand his language.
...it is the triumph of the individual over art.
heretofore we had been digging in the dark, with nothing but instinct to guide us.
we had no need for genius - genius is dead. We have need for strong hands, for spirits who are willing to give up the ghost and put on flesh...
in Paris. Everything is raised to apotheosis. The cradle gives up its babes and new ones take their places. You can read on the walls where Zola lived and Balzac and Dante and Strindberg and everybody who ever was anything. Everyone had lived here some time or other. Nobody dies here....
there is a short if atomic frenzy to the activity going on; the more furius the pace, the more diminished the spirit.
we just sit there for hours whithout saying a word. That's a bliss!
my eye, but I' ve been all over that ground - years and years ago. I' ve lived out of my melancholy youth. I don't give a fuck any more what's behind me, or what's ahead of me. I' m healthy. No sorrows, no regrets. No past, no future. The present is enough for me. Day by Day. Today! Le bel aujourd' hui!
Tropic of Cancer Paris, 1934