Nano count 8681

Descent into madness broke a thousand dollars yesterday. It’s strange how real this is becoming.

 

 

For this edition of Vocabulary I used Gabriel Garcia Marques’s Memories of My Melancholy Whores. This run is fairly absent of vocabulary. Maybe I’m getting smarter or maybe Marquez just decided to be plainspoken with this particular novel, but I still don’t feel like clogging up my feed with a bunch of other people’s words. In fact, I think I am going to stop posting Quoteages other than the vocabulary installments. I’ve said before that I’m going to make some changes to the site and those changes will in part be fueled by my branching out into other outlets and getting a clearer idea of what this blog is. When people visit the Old Man site I want them to be able to flow backwards through my work, rather than slogging through reposts from other people.

Anyhoo, on to Memories of My Melancholy Whores:

 

Morality too, is a question of time

 

The only Virgos left in the world are people like you were born in August.

 

Inspiration gives no warnings

 

I began to auction off whenever I didn’t need to live, which turned out to be almost everything but books and Pianola rolls.

 

That’s kind of pain is natural at your stage, he said.

In that case, I said, what isn’t natural at my age.

The Doctor gave me a pitying smile.  I see that you are a philosopher, he said.

 

I never had intimate friends, and the few who came close are in New York. By which I mean they’re dead.

 

Movies are not my genre. The obscene cult of Shirly Temple was the final straw.

 

Chirruping – Chirp

 

I had always chosen my brides for a night at random, more for their price than their charms, and we made love without love, half-dressed most of the time and always in the dark so we could imagine ourselves as better than we were.

 

Whenever someone asks I always answer with the truth: whores left me no time to be married.

 

Make no mistake: Peaceful madmen are ahead of the future.

 

fame is a very fat lady who doesn’t sleep with you, but when you wake she’s always at the foot of the bed, looking at us.

 

It was the same punctual December returning with its translucent, skies, its sandstorms, its whirlwinds in the streets that blew the roofs off houses and lifted the skirts of schoolgirls

 

the city acquired a Spectral Resonance.

 

If I detest anything in this world it is the obligatory celebrations with people crying because they’re happy.

 

 The Little Prince by Saint-Exupery, a French author whom the entire world admires mire than the French do.

 

Weeping aloud with a crazed love that lasted until it was carried away without mercy by the violent wind of real life.

 

Glasses of a hopeless myopic, and inconsolable sadness made him as aged as his grandfather had been at seventy.

 

 

 

SPOILERS:

It was at last, real life, with my heart safe and condemned to die of happy life in the joyful agony of any day after my hundredth birthday.

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