“There was so much in you that charmed me that I felt I must tell you something about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be if you were wasted.”—Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray (via man-of-prose)
As someone sets light to the first fire of autumn We settle down to cut ourselves apart Cough and twitch from the news on your face And some foreign candle burning in your eyes
Held to the past, too aware of the pending Chill as the dawn breaks and finds us up for sale Enter the fog, another low road descending Away from the cold lust, your house and summertime
Blind to the last cursed affair Pistols and countless eyes A trail of white blood betrays the reckless route your craft is running Feed till the sun turns into wood Dousing an ancient torch Loiter the whole day through and lose yourself in lines dissecting love
Your name on my cast and my notes on your stay Offer me little but doting on a crime We’ve turned every stone, and for all our inventions In matters of love loss, we’ve no recourse at all
Blind to the last cursed affair Pistols and countless eyes A trail of white blood betrays the reckless route your craft is running Feed till the sun turns into wood dousing an ancient torch Loiter the whole day through and lose yourself in lines dissecting love
"Human love is a frightened thing with half-shut eyes: It dives into the dusk, skitters about in dark corners, speaks in whispers, hides behind curtains, and puts out the light.
I do not begrudge the sun. Let it peek—so long as I am there too—under the unsnapping snaps. Let it peep through the window. That doesn’t bother me.
Yes, I have always been of the opinion that for a love affair midday suits far better than midnight. The moon, on which so many rapturous exclamations have been wasted, that night sun under a vulgar blue lampshade, I simply cannot bear.”
—Excerpt from Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky’s In The Pupil