Life got in their way
The night was not young. He uttered, whispered almost in commandment, ‘Will you stay?’, asking her a question she would not and could not say no to. She nodded in their silent bubble in the middle of the noisy, intoxicated crowd. That was the moment they had been waiting for. The night was not young. She was too young in his almost frightened, almost guilty eyes.
…then life got in their way.
by bukowski
‘This is presented as a work of fiction and dedicated to nobody.’
charles bukowski
by Proust
The novelist’s happy discovery was to think of substitutes for those opaque sections, impenetrable to the human soul, their equivalent in immaterial sections, things, that is, which one’s soul can assimilate. After which is matters not that the actions, the feelings of this new order of creation to appear to us in the guise of truth, since we have made them our own, since it is in ourselves that they are happening, that they are holding a thrall, as we feverishly turn over the pages of the book, our quickened breath and staring eyes. And once the novelist has brought us to this state, in which, as in all purely mental states, every emotion is multiplied ten-fold, into which his book comes to disturb us as might a dream, but a dream more lucid and more abiding than those which come to us in sleep, why then, for the space of an hour he sets free within us all the joys and sorrows in the world, a few of which only we should have spend years of or actual life in getting to know, and the most intense of which would never be revealed to us because the slow course of their development prevents us from perceiving them. It is the same in life, the heart changes, and it is our worst sorrow; but we know it only through reading, through our imagination: in reality its alteration, like that of certain natural phenomena, is so gradual that, even if we are able to distinguish, successively, each of its different states, we are still spared the actual sensation of change.
Marcel Proust
by Proust
A little tap on the window-pane, as though something had struck it, followed by a plentiful light falling sound, as of grains of sand being sprinkled from a window overhead, gradually spreading, intensifying, acquiring a regular rhythm, becoming fluid, sonorous, musical, immeasurable, universal; it was the rain.
Marcel Proust
wiccan rede
Bide the Wiccan Laws we must
In Perfect Love and Perfect Trust.
Live and let live,
Fairly take and fairly give.
Cast the Circle thrice about
To keep the evil spirits out.
To bind the spell every time
Let the spell be spake in rhyme.
Soft of eye and light of touch,
Speak but little, listen much.
Deosil go by waxing moon,
Chanting out the Witches’ Rune.
Widdershins go by waning moon,
Chanting out the baneful rune.
When the Lady’s moon is new,
Kiss thy hand to Her, times two.
When the moon rides at her peak,
Then your heart’s desire seek.
Heed the North wind’s mighty gale,
Lock the door and drop the sail.
When the wind comes from the South,
Love will kiss thee on the mouth.
When the wind blows from the West,
Departed souls will have no rest.
When the wind blows from the East,
Expect the new and set the feast.
Nine woods in the cauldron go,
Burn them fast and burn them slow.
Elder be the Lady’s tree,
Burn it not or cursed you’ll be.
When the Wheel begins to turn,
Let the Beltane fires burn.
When the Wheel has turned to Yule,
Light the log, the Horned One rules.
Heed ye Flower, Bush and Tree,
By the Lady, Blessed Be.
Where the rippling waters go,
Cast a stone and truth you’ll know.
When ye have a true need,
Hearken not to others’ greed.
With a fool no season spend,
Lest ye be counted as his friend.
Merry Meet and Merry Part,
Bright the cheeks and warm the heart.
Mind the Threefold Law you should,
Three times bad and three times good.
When misfortune is enow,
Wear the blue star on thy brow.
True in Love ever be,
Lest thy lover’s false to thee.
Eight words the Wiccan Rede fulfill:
As Ye Harm None, Do What Ye Will
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