My body is the intention, my body is the event, my body is the result.
We sleep in language, if language does not come to wake us with its strangeness.
You mean that’s your idea of desire, with all those commas?
I want to be inside your darkest everything.
Frida Kahlo, The Diary of Frida Kahlo: An Intimate Self-Portrait
So many dreams are crowding upon me now that I can scarcely tell true from false: dreams like light imprisoned in bright mineral caves; hot, heavy dreams; ice-age dreams; dreams like machines in the head.
You never receive me apart from the grammar that establishes my availability to you.
Judith Butler, Gender Trouble
How many faces, how many bodies can you recognize, with your eyes closed, only by touching them ? Have you ever closed your eyes and acted unconsciously ? Or loved someone so blindly, you could almost feel their energy in a dark room and be moved by the powerful touch of their ideas ?
My dreams have never been kept within reason.
I have a feeling only for shadows
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How many more times do I need to bite out of this fruit populated by worms in order to be able to taste what has been labeled life’s experience, in order to be no longer bewitched by the charm of its cadaveric putrefaction? The decadence of each gesture I execute like a death sentence and the aura that surrounds my head each time I think about corpses, about wax figures, about ruins, manuscripts half devastated by arson, about a spoon between the fingers of a woman putrefying leisurely on its journey to the mouth, about movements captured in slow-motion in old movies, but preeminently about mustaches, the mustaches of men at the turn of the century, provoke me to peruse the things that surround me with a retina that presupposes itself perused, with a retina of stone pursued by a stone of flesh and, impervious to how minuscule and how relative this casually passive and easy to violate position might be, I can’t deprive myself of its morbid charm. I would prefer to posses the philosopher’s stone in order to transmute lead to gold. I would prefer to murder a child and spare the life of a butterfly.
When I am lonely for boys it’s their bodies I miss. I study their hands lifting the cigarettes in the darkness of the movie theaters, the slope of a shoulder, the angle of a hip. Looking at them sideways, I examine them in different lights. My love for them is visual: that is the part of them I would like to possess. Don’t move, I think. Stay like that, let me have that.
She is in love with the beautiful formlessness of the sea.
A kiss is the beginning of cannibalism.
They both wanted to exchange bodies, exchange faces. There was in both of them the dark strain of wanting to become the other, to deny what they were, to transcend their actual selves.
Anaïs Nin, Ladders to Fire
Suddenly I had a flash of insight: I am a monster, I realized, a monster that wants to stalk through the woods, free and alone, and cannot even bear so much as the touch of a branch on its skin.
Marlen Haushofer, The Loft.
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