Tristessa

The beauty of things must be that they end.

I'll go to the south of Sicily in the winter, and paint memories of Arles – I'll buy a piano and Mozart me that – I'll write long sad tales about people in the legend of my life – This part is my part of the movie, let's hear yours

We are nothing. - Tomorrow we may be die. We are nothing. - You and me.

Like Goethe at 80, you know the futility of love and you shrug--you shrug away the warm kiss

I'll write long sad tales about people in the legend of my life - This part is my part of the movie, let's hear yours.

Oh what was the racket that backeted and smashed in raging might, to make this oil-puddle world?--

She is giving me my life back and not claiming it for herself as so many of the women you love do claim.

It starts raining harder, I've got a long way to go walking and pushing that sore leg right along in the gathering rain, no chance no intention whatever of hailing a cab, the whiskey and the Morphine have made me unruffled by the sickness of the poison in my heart.

Does kittykat know there's a pigeon on the clothes closet?

Some people have vibrations that come straight from the vibrating heart of the sun, unjaded...

I know everything's alright but I want proof and the Buddhas and the Virgin Marys are there reminding me of the solemn pledge of faith in this harsh and stupid earth where we rage our so-called lives in a sea of worry, meat for Chicagos of Graves - right this minute my very father and my very brother lie side by side in mud in the North and I'm supposed to be smarter than they are - being quick I am dead.

I realize all the uncountable manifestations the thinking-mind invents to place wall of horror before its pure perfect realization that there is no wall and no horror just Transcendental Empty Kissable Milk Light of Everlasting Eternity's true and perfectly empty nature.

I play games with her fabulous eyes and she longs to be in a monastery

I'd rather walk than ride the airplane, I can fall on the ground flat on my face and die that way.

I see the whole thing popping and parenthesizing in every direction, the story of that house and that kitchen.

Trouble is, what would I do with her once I won her?- it's like winning an angel in hell and you are then entitled to go down with her to where it's worse or maybe there'll be light, some, down there, maybe it's me's crazy-

Count all these sufferings from here to the end of the endless sky which is no sky and see how many you can add together to make a figure to impress the Boss of Dead Souls in the Meat Manufactory in city City CITY everyone of them in pain and born to die, milling in the streets at 2 A M underneath those imponderable skies”—their enormous endlessness, the sweep of the Mexican plateau away from the Moon—living but to die, the sad song of it I hear sometimes on my roof in the Tejado district, rooftop cell, with candles, waiting for my Nirvana or my Tristessa—neither come, at noon I hear “La Paloma” being played on mental radios in the fallways between the tenement windows—the crazy kid next door sings, the dream is taking place right now, the music is so sad, the French horns ache, the high whiney violins and the deberratarra-rabaratarara of the Indian Spanish announcer. Living but to die, here we wait on this shelf, and up in heaven is all that gold open caramel, ope my door—Diamond Sutra is the sky.

Ela acaricia meu braço com o dedo. Tento me lembrar de meu lugar e minha posição na eternidade. Renunciei à luxúria pela luxúria, renunciei à sexualidade e ao impulso inibidor, quero entrar na torrente sagrada de luz e ficar seguro em meu caminho para a outra margem, mas deixaria, de boa vontade, um beijo para Tristessa por escutar os apelos de meu coração. Ela sabe que eu a amo e admiro com todo o meu coração e que estou me segurando. "Você tem sua vida': diz ela "e eu tenho que cuidar da minha", ela me devolve minha vida e não a exige para si mesma como fazem tantas mulheres que você ama. - Eu a amo mas quero partir. Ela diz: "Eu sei.

Tristessa e a estranheza de seu rosto amoroso, asteca, garota índia com olhos de Billie Holliday misteriosos e semicerrados e com uma grande voz melancólica como as atrizes vienenses de rostos tristes como Luise Rainer que fizeram toda a Ucrânia chorar em 1910. [...] Curvas lindas em forma de pêra moldam a pele de seu rosto, que tem pestanas compridas e tristes, e uma resignação de Virgem Maria, e uma compleição cor de café e textura de pêssego e olhos de um mistério impressionante com uma falta de expressão de profundidade rasteira, meio desdém meio um lamento de dor pesaroso.

Vou para o sul da Sicília no inverno e pintar lembranças de Arles – Vou comprar um piano e me mozartear – vou escrever histórias tristes e compridas sobre pessoas na lenda da minha vida.

Since beginningless time and into the never-ending future, men have loved women without telling them, and the Lord has loved them without telling, and the void is not the void because there's nothing to be empty of. Art there, Lord Star? - Diminished is the drizzle that broke my calm.