Sublime

Berkowitz and Michaelson, who were not only business partners but lifelong friends, made a pact: Whichever one died first would come back and tell the other what it was like in heaven. Six months later, Berkowitz died. He was a very moral man, almost saintlike, a puritan who had never done anything wrong, who had always remained afraid of lust and

The table was loaded with yellowing newspapers and empty bottles and it held a single brown and wrinkled potato in which even the sprouting eyes were rotten. Red wine had been spilled on the floor, it had been allowed to dry and it made the air in the room sweet and heavy. But it was not the room’s disorder which was frightening; it was the fact th

Not that I’m crazy or anything, I just want some proof that death isn’t the end. Even if crazed zombies grabbed me in some dark hall one night, even if they tore me apart, at least that wouldn’t be the absolute end. There would be some comfort in that.

he sponsored strangers’ ale so he might siphon off their madness. And better was his side of the trade. For men cannot know each other’s hearts, not while they’re of sound mind. Standardized words are more handicap than help.

Lord Byron (1788-1824) incarne le paradoxe du poète rebelle, du paresseux révolté, du révolutionnaire décontracté. Son premier recueil de poésie publié en 1807 lorsqu’il avait 19 ans et étudiait au Trinity College à Cambridge s’appelait Heures de paresse. C’était un aristocrate, un riche oisif. Cependant,

It’s not the cracked walls of my rented room, nor the shabby desks in the office where I work, nor the poverty of the same old downtown streets in between, which I’ve crossed and recrossed so many times they seem to have assumed the immobility of the irreparable – none of that is responsible for my frequent feeling of nausea over the squalor of dai

Je refermai le cahier sur mon récit et enfouis le tout dans la poche intérieure de ma veste, et je demandai au garçon une douzaine de portugaises et une demi-carafe de son vin blanc sec. Après avoir écrit un conte je me sentais toujours vidé, mais triste et heureux à la fois, comme après avoir fait l’amour, et j’étais sûr que j’avais fait du bon tr