Miranda July, It Chooses You
(via leopoldgursky)
Miranda July, It Chooses You
(via leopoldgursky)
It is probably clear by now why that morning she felt so happy in the bed that Paul had just left a moment ago, and why she passed so quietly through the hall so as not to attract Brigitte’s attention. She even welcomed the capricious elevator, because it permitted her a few moments of solitude. She looked forward to the drive, too, because in the car nobody talked to her and nobody looked at her. Yes, the most important thing was that nobody looked at her. Solitude: A sweet absence of looks. Once, both her colleagues were off sick and she worked for two weeks all alone in the office. She was surprised to notice that she was far less tired at the end of the day. Since then she knew that looks were like weights that pressed her down to the ground, or like kisses that sucked her strength; that looks were needles that etched the wrinkles in her face.
Milan Kundera, Immortality
Eudora Welty, One Writer’s Beginnings
(via leopoldgursky)