They stood as warnings that the world of surfaces is seldom what it seems. Another spirit world lay beneath it, a vast circuit of networks over which their earthly empire had no dominion.
On his waistcoat he wore the pocket watch of his grandfather, or some dead relative. He looked at it frequently, weighing up the time in his hand.
He rarely shows up before 11. As if each morning, fresh mediocrity slides out of the ocean, slimes its way over mossy rocks and sand, then sprouts skittering appendages that stretch and morph and twist into limbs as it forges on inland until finally, fully formed.
All sorts of things influence me. I let things influence me. If they catch my interests I let them take hold.
he doesn’t even know yet if time exists for the purpose of making various layers and paths overlap, or if it’s to keep things separate. . . . Speaking about the actual nature of time is something he can probably do best in conversation with those who have fallen out of it.
At home, Jaeggy writes on a swamp-green Hermes typewriter, which she goes to, she says, “as though to a piano. I practice. I do scales.”
One of humanity’s prime drives is to understand and be understood. All other living creatures are designed for highly specialized tasks. Man seems unique as the comprehensive comprehender and coordinator of local universe affairs.