One winter, I read almost all of the ancient Greek plays. As a matter of fact I read them out loud. And throughout, finishing the reverse side of each page would tear it from the book and drop it into my fire.

David Markson, Wittgenstein’s Mistress  (via petersantiago)

Piece by piece the combustible mental flesh—a red-hot mass of burning pulp—lit up brightly and died suddenly dark again in the golden solar flames; the cremated words resurrected for all time in his tender eyes flaming like molten balls.

(Reblogged from petersantiago)

Notes

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