Category: Nightwood

There’s something evil in me that loves …

There’s something evil in me that loves evil and degradation—purity’s black backside! That loves honesty with a horrid love; or why have I always gone seeking it at the liar’s door?

Even the contemplative life is only an effort,…

Even the contemplative life is only an effort, Nora my dear, to hide the body so the feet won’t stick out.

I might have known better, nothing is what eve…

I might have known better, nothing is what everybody wants, the world runs on that law. Personally, if I could, I would instigate Meat-Axe Day, and out of the goodness of my heart I would whack your head off with a couple of others. Every man should be allowed one day and a hatchet just to ease his heart.

A strong sense of identity gives man an idea h…

A strong sense of identity gives man an idea he can do no wrong; too little accomplishes the same.

She was nervous about the future; it made her …

She was nervous about the future; it made her indelicate. She was one of the most unimportantly wicked women of her time — because she could not let her time alone, and yet could never be a part of it. She wanted to be the reason for everything and so was the cause of nothing. She had the fluency of tongue and action meted out by divine providence to those who cannot think for themselves. She was the master of the over-sweet phrase, the over-tight embrace.

She was gracious and yet fading, like an old s…

She was gracious and yet fading, like an old statue in a garden, that symbolizes the weather through which it has endured, and is not so much the work of man as the work of wind and rain and the herd of the seasons, and though formed in men’s image is a figure of doom.

We are adhering to life now with our last musc…

We are adhering to life now with our last muscle — the heart.

Suffering is the decay of the heart; all that …

Suffering is the decay of the heart; all that we have loved becomes the ‘forbidden’ when we have not understood it all…

Love becomes the deposit of the heart, analogo…

Love becomes the deposit of the heart, analogous in all degrees to the ‘findings’ in a tomb. As in one will be charted the taken place of the body, the raiment, the utensils necessary to its other life, so in the heart of the lover will be traced, as an indelible shadow, that which he loves.

Life is not to be told, call it as loud as you…

Life is not to be told, call it as loud as you like, it will not tell itself.