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Face at the window (from C.Toibin)

 January 1895 a new generation a lifeline an evening in his own apartments, it was indeed gruesomely intimate the husband knew not to speak ‘when we are all dead and forgotten, only you would be remembered’ the only child among them neither puzzled nor hurt in his own armchair an American writing about English life(…)

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Curfew (from P.Modiano)

four hours to wait for the Paris train a brunette in a yellow taxi stifling in the footsteps born in Vienna a sleepless night in that semi-somnombulist state occasionally interrupted by a shaft of sunlight under someone’s protection two men and three women tempted to say yes elected to the explorers club detached from everything(…)

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South Pole (from E. Kagge)

a source of deeper riches in the blue space between the stories in tiny movements between the stone and moss trying with myself the goldfish breathing without air wander in circles over the same ocean every time the sun rises quiet gravity nothing is lost speaking on that which remains unspeakable for one more Spring(…)

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Under a clock (from V.Woolf)

their blank melody outside in grey flannels I saw her kiss you I looked between the leaves and saw her we must form into pairs run up these stairs counting each step I have torn off the whole of May and June and 20 days of July the week: one long day without divisions I(…)

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With a single heart (from N.Gogol)

100 souls not elderly, not overly young swarming with black beetles pickles we conform ourselves to cabbage soup, do so with a single heart. Face the blue of the forest eyelids as heavy as those smeared with treacle fallen into an aristocratic wilderness ‘perhaps you’d like to have you heals tickled dip them in melted(…)

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Ursula’s grudge (from D.H.Lawrence)

one was a tiny little rock she despised and detested people, loved only children and animals children she loved passionately but coldly had a profound grudge against the human being contemptuous ridicule night had fallen, it was dark but she forgot to be afraid among the trees a magic peace a pure loneliness it was(…)

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Pocket handkerchiefs (V.Woolf)

here we are like herrings going out into the world solitary, unanswered, breaking against rocks one may learn to paint at fifty heads on pocket handkerchiefs one wants to write poetry, and to love here, against a wall, a woman stares at nothing home they went fatigue … the safest sleeping draft with deserted beautiful(…)

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