gay-novelists

"He was poor until 1956, sometimes only able to afford portions of rice at a milk bar; he cheated on hunger with psychedrine or other available means. But that's when his writing exploded (...) he led the life of a French surrealist or a New York beatnik."

"The chicken with cucumber is ready the weather is there she put her teeth on grab the bucket for water leans over teeth splash into the well and here are the guests on their way"

"a man a Miron agonizes agonizes again he’s a talossfor an utter can’t utter er"

"Białoszewski was quite a hipster."

"i'm myself i'm stupid what should i do and what should i do"

"that lying on like that and thinking it is naturally bad because in the nature i'm just lying there thinking then something will attack me and eat me"

"How glad I am that you are the sky and the kaleidoscope, that you have so many artificial stars, that you shine so brightly in a monstrance, when you lift your hollow half-globe around the eyes under the air. How immeasurable in wealth you are, colander spoon!"

"Don't get lost. Be there. Let's pass each other, let's pass each other but let's not skip it. Let's pass. We, You who fly and you are pushed."

"Get in, madonnas madonnas To six-horse carriages ... ix-horse!"

"Miron knew when he would die. He told me this: that he knows. That he is completely empty. There is a belief in Egypt that if you walk around the Sphinx and say a wish, it will come true. He had no wish then. He thought for a long time what to say, and finally came up with: just to make sure he doesn't run out of codeine for the rest of his life. And indeed there was plenty."

"i was afraid of my stomach squeaking confused him with an invisible mouse."

"I am a Denderowianka. I don't know what that means."

"– Ralla la laa – radio with woman – uuu! – somewhere child – Ralla la laa! – woman – uu! – child – Ral la la – woman – uu – child – Ra la la – – u oh my ear went crazy? and then no: sunday moves hang in there, people!"

"Tekla Tekla Tekla Tekla Tekla, the clock is calling you... Tekla is gone, Tekla has left."

"I'm not worried about (...) not being. Finally peace from everything. The state of not being well known to me. I haven't been there once. Until 1922. Others too. They just forget."

"And [people] don't want to understand the first layer of the poem - its literalness. They immediately want to perceive something other than what is there."

"i have a break in my hair i'm here all the time just a hair and i would be beautiful"

"don't move from here don't go anywhere to no other planets unless they're here - so whatever happened pretend we don't know each other"

"death death so much of her that it discourage the pride of dying"

"everyone is for themselves the most important because if you don't agree with yourself it is what it is anyway"

"existence by non-existence pulled by the hair"

"Don't think I'm unhappy. I'm glad I think. Think I'm glad"

"I carry it with me some of my own place. When I lose it"

"I have a furnace similar to the triumphal gate! They're taking away my furnace similar to the triumphal gate!! Give me back furnace similar to a triumphal gate!!! They took it away. All that was left of him grey naked cavity grey naked cavity And this is enough for me: grey naked cavity grey naked cavity gre – y – na – ked – cavi – ty greynakedcavity."

"I went into a full store; glass lamps were burning, I saw someone - who sat down, and what did I hear?... what did I hear? the rustling of bags and human speech. Well, really Really I'm back."

"i assumed: one day you'll get bored of me but still still i'm waiting you come still i'm waiting you're not coming yes, that's it [I didn't assumed]"

"I went to the p p ph armacy A a apo thecary - Sir, we do not sell over the counter I ask her - Are you ours too? - I'm Vietnamese I left, with Asia, you never know"

"my head hurts me and myself"

"She liked Art Nouveau. She was depressed. Now she meditates. Something starting with "ę". She vibrates."

"she walked around and looked into pots - they don't cook buttermilk? and then she got drunk she was selling four linden trees with a cross as they said she said - I didn't sell it - I didn't sell it and beat with an iron"

"They're looking at me, so I probably have a face. Of all the familiar faces, I remember my own the least."

"First I went down to the street on stairs, oh, imagine, the stairs."

"when i lie down i am unable to get up"

"Yes in my hermitage it tempts: loneliness world memory and that I consider myself a poet."

"I love peace and quiet above everything. I hate war as does every just man, but I should like to see a great war that would clear the air like a thunderstorm, that would shatter all chains, and would thrust back to their natural bounds the hyenas among the nations. This latter most of all, for not until then will it be possible to enthrone the longed-for peace; the logic of history points to this, as does also the spirit of God in that history. The spirit of God cannot, of course, desire war and bloodshed, but the breaking of fetters and the restoration of human dignity to an earth which has breathed arrogance and hate for centuries past. I call for God’s judgment, I call for justice; millions call with a voice that will find the ear of God."

"I was born in 1896 and my parents were married in 1919."

"[Ockie] imagines himself one of his Voortrekker ancestors, rolling slowly into the interior in an ox-wagon. Yes, there are those who dream in predictable ways. Ockie the brave pioneer, floating over the plain. A brown-and-yellow countryside passes outside, dry except for where a river cuts through it, under a huge Highveld sky."

"And maybe that is the true reason for this journey, by shedding all the ballast of the familiar life they are each trying to recapture a sensation of weightlessness they remember but perhaps never lived, in memory more than anywhere else traveling is like free-fall, or flight."

"All the images and impressions and countries and continents he'd vised had been erased. What you don't remember never happened."

"In a strange room you must empty yourself for sleep. And before you are emptied for sleep, what are you. And when you are emptied for sleep, you are not. And when you are filled with sleep, you never were."

"The moment the metal box speaks her name, she knows it’s happened. She’s been in a tense, headachy mood all day, almost like she had a warning in a dream but can’t remember what it is. Some sign or image, just under the surface. Trouble down below. Fire underground."

"They park in the driveway under the awning, with its beautiful green and purple and orange stripes. Beyond it, a diorama of white South Africa, the tin-roofed suburban bungalow made of reddish face brick, surrounded by a moat of bleached garden. Jungle gym looking lonely on a big brown lawn. Concrete birdbath, a Wendy house and a swing made from half a truck tyre."

"The first time I saw him I thought, he won't last."

"So for a while I had two lives: one that was empty and adrift, in the hospital by day and another that was illicit and intense, by the side of the road at night. The one had nothing to do with the other."

"Innovation and change: it was one of her key phrases, a mantra she liked to repeat. But it was empty. Ruth Ngema would go to great lengths to avoid any innovation or change, because who knew what might follow on?""

"He knows that he is beautiful and somehow this makes him ugly."

"In exile one is nothing but a ghost ... I ceased to exist when I went into exile."

"I’ve always been very interested in the short story. Compared to the often exhausting world of the novel, the short story offers a quicker reward, and there’s something appealing about its greater spontaneity…"

"I never keep a fixed schedule. I like to write for a while, move around, read, drink something, come back. But when I’ve entered the world of the novel, that demands more concentration. It’s hard to even write a letter, because it means leaving that world. To put aside the typewriter and take out letter paper, or stop because you have to pay the phone bill, is terrible…"

"The writer has a fundamental responsibility to write well or to write the best he can, because if he doesn’t he’s not a writer. And when a writer writes, he’s always referring to a social and historical context…"