For a long time I would go to bed early. Sometimes, the candle barely out, my eyes closed so quickly that I did not have time to tell myself: “I’m falling asleep.” And half an hour later the thought that it was time to look for sleep would awaken me; I would make as if to put away the book which I imagined was still in my hands, and to blow out the light; I had gone on thinking, while I was asleep, about what I had just been reading, but these thoughts had taken a rather peculiar turn; it seemed to me that I myself was the immediate subject of my book: a church, a quartet, the rivalry between François I and Charles V. This impression would persist for some moments after I awoke; it did not offend my reason, but lay like scales upon my eyes and prevented them from registering the fact that the candle was no longer burning. Then it would begin to seem unintelligible, as the thoughts of a previous existence must be after reincarnation; the subject of my book would separate itself from me, leaving me free to apply myself to it or not; and at the same time my sight would return and I would be astonished to find myself in a state of darkness, pleasant and restful enough for my eyes, but even more, perhaps, for my mind, to which it appeared incomprehensible, without a cause, something dark indeed. I would ask myself what time it could be; I could hear the whistling of trains, which, now nearer and now further off, punctuating the distance like the note of a bird in a forest, showed me in perspective the deserted countryside through which a traveller is hurrying towards the nearby station; and the path he is taking will be engraved in his memory by the excitement induced by strange
surroundings, by unaccustomed activities, by the conversation he has had and the farewells exchanged beneath an unfamiliar lamp that still echo in his ears amid the silence of the night, and by the happy prospect of being home again.
THOUGHTS ON THE OPENING OF PROUSTS IN SEARCH OF LOST TIME
As of late I had been hitting the sack early 'cause I knew thoughts would keep me awake.
Ignoring the tattoos, that's a 10/10 face.
8/10 face, 10/10 tits
Who is this semen demon?
I want to treat her like a father would for a while and then sexualize it into an incest roleplay
tl;dr
Are you a wodka? (White Russians fuck wodka)
>IN SEARCH OF LOST TIME
mon dieu
Absolutely fantastic. It's as if he still writes [us] from this place, almost as the best poets write us from the place (or from the perspective) of being dead.. knowing that if theyre read through the years that this perspective will read more justly..
are there black russians?
Yeah they're coffee liquor, vodka and ice.
>ywn have a nazi waifu with DSLs and big titties to throat fuck and cum on her forehead swastika while her normie friend watches disappointedly nearby
why even live as a black man in the XXI century
haven't you heard the thot anthem?
'white pussy was made for black cock'
it reads like schizophrenic word salad
postmodern garbage
this makes me cringe like hell; nice lips and tits though
Why must you torment me with these jezebels?
south eastern russian are chinks
Proust is a father of modernism
I think I read this in college when I had terrible, terrible insomnia. The passage was paradoxically comforting and stressful, for I wanted to sleep so badly. Ended up just reading through Swann's Way for the remainder of the night.
hahaha ces anglais
Longtemps, je me suis couché de bonne heure. Parfois, à peine ma bougie éteinte, mes yeux se fermaient si vite que je n’avais pas le temps de me dire : « Je m’endors. » Et, une demi-heure après, la pensée qu’il était temps de chercher le sommeil m’éveillait ; je voulais poser le volume que je croyais avoir encore dans les mains et souffler ma lumière ; je n’avais pas cessé en dormant de faire des réflexions sur ce que je venais de lire, mais ces réflexions avaient pris un tour un peu particulier ; il me semblait que j’étais moi-même ce dont parlait l’ouvrage : une église, un quatuor, la rivalité de François Ier et de Charles Quint. Cette croyance survivait pendant quelques secondes à mon réveil ; elle ne choquait pas ma raison mais pesait comme des écailles sur mes yeux et les empêchait de se rendre compte que le bougeoir n’était plus allumé. Puis elle commençait à me devenir inintelligible, comme après la métempsycose les pensées d’une existence antérieure ; le sujet du livre se détachait de moi, j’étais libre de m’y appliquer ou non ; aussitôt je recouvrais la vue et j’étais bien étonné de trouver autour de moi une obscurité, douce et reposante pour mes yeux, mais peut-être plus encore pour mon esprit, à qui elle apparaissait comme une chose sans cause, incompréhensible, comme une chose vraiment obscure. Je me demandais quelle heure il pouvait être ; j’entendais le sifflement des trains qui, plus ou moins éloigné, comme le chant d’un oiseau dans une forêt, relevant les distances, me décrivait l’étendue de la campagne déserte où le voyageur se hâte vers la station prochaine ; et le petit chemin qu’il suit va être gravé dans son souvenir par l’excitation qu’il doit à des lieux nouveaux, à des actes inaccoutumés, à la causerie récente et aux adieux sous la lampe étrangère qui le suivent encore dans le silence de la nuit, à la douceur prochaine du retour.
haha u negros and yer sense of humor haha :)
tfw no degenerate nazi gf. also,
>translations
disgusting