‘You’ll find another.’
‘God! Banish the thought. Why don’t you tell me that ‘if the girl had been worth having she’d have waited for you’? No, sir, the girl really worth having won’t wait for anybody.’
by F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise
Oh, suddenly it’s nothing to see on the way and it’s nothing when I get there, and I’m in a coffee-house, listening to a woman talk who’s wearing more clothes than I have money in the world.
She is adorned in yellow and jewellery and a language that I cannot understand. She is talking about something that is of no importance, insisting on it. I can tell all this because the man who is with her will buy none of it, and stares absent-mindedly at the universe.
The man has not spoken a word since they sat down here with cups of espresso coffee accompanying them like small black dogs. Perhaps he does not care any more. I think he is her husband.
Suddenly she breaks into English. She says, ‘He should know. They’re his flowers,’ in the only language I understand and there’s no reply echoing all the way back to the beginning where nothing could ever have been any different.
I was born forever to chronicle this: I don’t know these people and they aren’t my flowers.
by Richard Brautigan
She is adorned in yellow and jewellery and a language that I cannot understand. She is talking about something that is of no importance, insisting on it. I can tell all this because the man who is with her will buy none of it, and stares absent-mindedly at the universe.
The man has not spoken a word since they sat down here with cups of espresso coffee accompanying them like small black dogs. Perhaps he does not care any more. I think he is her husband.
Suddenly she breaks into English. She says, ‘He should know. They’re his flowers,’ in the only language I understand and there’s no reply echoing all the way back to the beginning where nothing could ever have been any different.
I was born forever to chronicle this: I don’t know these people and they aren’t my flowers.
by Richard Brautigan
Christina Ricci choreographed her tap dance in the bowling alley scene.
That’s what I do: I make coffee and occasionally succumb to suicidal nihilism. But you shouldn’t worry — poetry is still first. Cigarettes and alcohol follow.
by Anne Sexton, from A Self-Portrait In Letters
by Anne Sexton, from A Self-Portrait In Letters
Cure (Kiyoshi Kurosawa, 1997)
