what Calvino calls tolerant and hypocritical

Britney 2022-03-21 09:02:33

What Calvino calls tolerance and hypocrisy 00:15 Loneliness is penetrating. 00:25 Death is always the end, maybe from birth, you got the news, poor tragedy, with the deepest fear, then accepted civilization and joined a deception. 00:51 Modern urban civilization is like a huge wheel running over everything it encounters, crushing and swallowing it, both in terms of time and place. Unknown, cannot escape, has to enter. 01:26 When You're lonely deep inside, it causes endless sadness usually I mean, the world teases you--people laugh by expressing nothing and fight like all the reason is about you, and others get painful and die unreasonable. 02: 02 Aging may make people misunderstand themselves. The aging figure resembles a slow-moving pig whose belly is being eaten by a swarm of maggots. The stain smells of sex on the surface of young skin, charming. Aging people are always using soap as a wire ball, scraping away piles of maggots and rotting flesh, as if bathing in fragrance.

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Extended Reading
  • Camryn 2022-03-27 09:01:13

    The ghost of life hits the wall, and the memory sees the light and dies

  • Kamron 2022-01-05 08:01:59

    I honestly, really hypnotized.

I'm Thinking of Ending Things quotes

  • Young Woman: [about his onset dementia] I'm sorry that y-you're...

    Father: That's okay. Truth is, I'm looking forward to when it gets very bad and I don't have to remember that I can't remember!

  • Young Woman: Coming home is terrible whether the dogs lick your face or not; whether you have a wife or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you. Coming home is terribly lonely, so that you think of the oppressive barometric pressure back where you have just come from with fondness, because everything's worse once you're home. You think of the vermin clinging to the grass stalks, long hours on the road, roadside assistance and ice creams, and the peculiar shapes of certain clouds and silences with longing because you did not want to return. Coming home is just awful. And the home-style silences and clouds contribute to nothing but the general malaise. Clouds, such as they are, are in fact suspect, and made from a different material than those you left behind. You yourself were cut from a different cloudy cloth, returned, remaindered, ill-met by moonlight, unhappy to be back, slack in all the wrong spots, seamy suit of clothes dishrag-ratty, worn. You return home moon-landed, foreign; the Earth's gravitational pull an effort now redoubled, dragging your shoelaces loose and your shoulders etching deeper the stanza of worry on your forehead. You return home deepened, a parched well linked to tomorrow by a frail strand of... Anyway... You sigh into the onslaught of identical days. One might as well, at a time... Well... Anyway... You're back. The sun goes up and down like a tired whore, the weather immobile like a broken limb while you just keep getting older. Nothing moves but the shifting tides of salt in your body. Your vision blears. You carry your weather with you, the big blue whale, a skeletal darkness. You come back with X-ray vision. Your eyes have become a hunger. You come home with your mutant gifts to a house of bone. Everything you see now, all of it: bone.