| osam dana te ignorišem devetog ti sadim crnu ružu u dvorište |
Every city has a sex and an age which have nothing to do with demography. Rome is feminine. So is Odessa. London is a teenager, an urchin, and, in this, hasn’t change since the time of Dickens. Paris, I believe, is a man in his twenties in love with an older woman.
“It’s not easy loving someone who’s gone all the time,” he said.
“I am here, I am always here.”
“You are with me, but you are not. You are here, but you are there.
You see, it’s more than just being next to someone. We drink tea together, sit in record shops together, and stay in bed together. Yet, some nights you are as far away as the next star.
We can spend the entire day side by side, but it’d feel as if you’ve been walking away the whole time.”
But good God, what’s wrong with me, after all? What am I missing? Why this emptiness, this nostalgia? What is this anxiety, as if I only loved something I didn’t know?
Clarice Lispector, from a letter to Fernando Sabino featured in Why This World: A Biography of Clarice Lispector
(via kvngslayer)
(via kvngslayer)
