/lit/ - Literature

>>Alone in my room
>>Halfway through Roberto Calasso's masterpiece Tiepolo Pink I see a "charming portrait of a young woman in a cloak whose hood is ruffled by the wind and who seems to have been pictured as she sets of in romantic trepidation and a hint of anxiety to a clandestine love tryst", portraying "Lydwine of Schiedam, who lived in Holland between 1380 and 1433 and has been renowned since for the strength of her faith, which permitted her to bear with abnegation terrible sufferings, following an accident that occurred while she was ice skating".
>>The glow of her cheeks, the charming gleam from the corner of her eyes, the way she tosses her head gracefully to the side, and all the beauty which art has endowed to this disfigured woman, whose strength of spirit can be seen in a single glance, and whose reputation lives centuries after her demise makes me laugh, although it touches my heart with a kind of muted sadness to know that she lives not. Looking her up on wikipedia, I realize she was born only several kilometers of my own home town
>>I think about her for the next two days. I invent a kind of fantasy where she likes the same kind of music as I do and we have the same kind of humor and interests. She is easily the most compatible person I have ever dreamed.
>>I invent a mental tulpa of her and, one day while taking a walk together along the riviera she asks me "Anon what's your favorite book?" I tell her it's A Rebours by Charles-Marie-Georges Huysmans. She's shocked because her favorite author is Léon Bloy and she can't believe we're so similar.

(cont).