Tag Archives: death

The Big Sleep

I went quickly away from her down the room and out and down the tiled staircase to the front hail. I didn’t see anybody when I left. I found my hat alone this time. Outside, the bright gardens had a haunted look, as though small wild eyes were watching me from behind the bushes, as […]

A Hundred Years of Solitude

W tym punkcie, niecierpliwie pragnąc poznać swoje własne pochodzenie, przerzucił kartki. Wtedy zerwał się wiatr, ciepły i pełen głosów przeszłości, szeptów dawnych pelargonii i westchnień, rozczarowań daw­niejszych niż najbardziej uparte tęsknoty. Nie zauważył, bo w tej chwili odkrywał pierwsze zalążki swojego istnienia we frywolnym dziadku lekkomyślnie wędrującym przez złudną pustynię w poszukiwaniu pięknej kobiety, której […]

The Road

He walked back into the woods and knelt beside his father. He was wrapped in a blanket as the man had promised and the boy didn’t uncover him but he sat beside him and he was crying and he couldn’t stop. He cried for a long time. I’ll talk to you every day, he whispered. […]

He came in steep,

. . . fueled by self-loathing. When the Kuang program met the first of the defenders, scattering the leaves of light, he felt the shark thing lose a degree of substantiality, the fabric of information loosening. And then – old alchemy of the brain and its vast pharmacy – his hate flowed into his hands. […]

Traveler’s epitaph

“I can’t say I know much, but I’ve loved, maybe too much; maybe from love I’ll get my death. I’ve seen Madagascar and walked the frozen sea. I have no trade, make nothing but pretty things which fail against the seriousness of rice. I’m not well or wise; I fear death; but I’ve never failed […]

The Kingdom

“We will kill them all.” Chilling.

Darkness

Later, I realized that all true happiness requires darkness: this is so with cinema, perhaps with sex and – if faith makes sense – with death. Jose Carlos Somoza, from La ventana pintada

Buck 65 “The Suffering Machine”

Black Angel Black Angel Black Angel Carry me down Jackets and shoes Pistols and pens Poor boy, feels like I ain’t got no friends I wake up nervous Sunday is gloomy Eyes on the sidewalk Look right through me I hear myself breathing Trying to focus Goodbye Babylon Wandering hopeless The drifter singing the lament […]

Hunter S. Thompson’s suicide note

“No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun — for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax — This won’t hurt.”