Denis Johnson

The man hanging out of the wrecked car was still alive as I passed, and I stopped, grown more used to the idea now of how really badly broken he was, and made sure there was nothing I could do. He was snoring loudly and rudely. His blood bubbled out of his mouth with every breath. He wouldn't be taking many more. I knew that, but he didn't, and therefore I looked down into the great pity of a person's life on this earth. I don't mean that we all end up dead, that's not the great pity. I mean that he couldn't tell me what he was dreaming, and I couldn't tell him what was real.


Denis Johnson
Jesus' Son

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Da suprema indiferença cega do mundo que é a sua beleza

He stood hat in hand over the unmarked earth. This woman who had worked for his family fifty years. She had cared for his mother as a baby and she had worked for his family long before his mother was born and she had known and cared for the wild Grady boys who were his mother’s uncles and who had all died so long ago and he stood holding his hat and he called her his abuela and he said goodbye to her in Spanish and then turned and put on his hat and turned his wet face to the wind and for a moment he held out his hands as if to steady himself or as if to bless the ground there or perhaps as if to slow the world that was rushing away and seemed to care nothing for the old or the young or rich or poor or dark or pale or he or she. Nothing for their struggles, nothing for their names. Nothing for the living or the dead. Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses
Read more

Cadernos - Londres e São Félix, 2025

Image
sem título 28/05/25 e 26/11/25 desaparecer dentro de ti. foi na tropa, em sentido, que aprendeste a desaparecer até de ti mesmo, como que te fundindo com o ar. deixas só o corpo presente e a voz que responde com uma parecença de assertividade, ou humor, ou empatia. mas não estás lá. não estás em lado nenhum. não te evades em fantasias acordadas. sais. e deixas o mundo passar como o rio que corre ou as ondas que quebram e o mar que é só o mar. sem título 16/10/24 e 23/11/25 tudo o que queria dos dias era estar à janela e à manhã limpa ver a cor do ar mudar em gradações de silêncio e acender-se de frio a calor, cinza a lilás e laranja e todas as cores. até o respirar calmo e o pulsar leve no corpo todo serem o ritmo de um conhecimento mudo de me saber mais velho, velho como o mundo e feito do mesmo que o mundo e sentir na ponta dos dedos e no peito e no corpo todo que este frenezim é puro e corta e é inseparável do fundo do sangue e do correr do ar e do resto que sou...
Read more