for a golden holiday

the relationship

legs

an apple and a stone

i was thinking of picking up a stone since last saturday.

note no.6 from the unbearable lightness of being by milan kundera

She was experiencing the same odd happiness and odd sadness as then. The sadness meant: we are at the last station. The happiness meant: we are together. The sadness was form, the happiness is content. Happiness filled the space of sadness.

note no.5 from the unbearable lightness of being by milan kundera

'Missions are stupid, Tereza. I have no mission. No one has. And it's a terrific relief to realize you're free, free of all missions.'

note no.4 from the unbearable lightness of being by milan kundera

Horror is a shock, a time of utter blindness. Horror lacks every hint of beauty. All we can see is the piercing light of an unknown event awaiting us.

note no.3 from the unbearable lightness of being by milan kundera

...a life based on repetition. and he expected the sam from them.
...happiness is longing for repetition.

note no.2 from the unbearable lightness of being by milan kundera

Betrayal. From tender youth we are told by father and teacher that betrayal is the mostheinous offence imaginable. But what is betrayal? Betrayal means breaking ranks. Betrayal means breaking ranks and going off into the unknown. Sabina knew of nothing more magnificent than going off into the unknown.
Though a student at the Academy of Fine Arts, she was not allowed to paint like Picasso. It was the period when so-called socialist realism was prescribed and the school manufactured portraits of Communist statemen. Her longing for betray her farther remained unsatisfied: Communism was merely another father, a father equally strict and limited, a father who forbade her love (the times were puritanical) and Picasso, too. And if she married a second-rate actor, it was only because he had a reputation for being eccentric and unacceptable to both fathers.
Then her mother died. The day following her returns to Prague from the funeral, she received a telegram saying her that her father had taken his life out of grief.
Suddenly she felt pangs of conscience: was it really so terrible that her father had painted vases filled with roses and hated Picasso? Was it really reprehensible that he was afraid of his fourteen-year-old daughter's coming home pregnant? Was it really so laughable that he could not go on living without his wife?
And again she felt a longing to betray: betray her own betrayal. She announced to her husband (whom she now considered a difficult drunk rather than an eccentric) that she was leaving him.
But if we betray B., for whom we betrayed A., it does not necessarily follow that we have placated A. The life of a divorcee-painter did not in the least resemble the life of the parents she had betrayed. The first betrayal is irreparable. It calls forth a chain reaction of further betrayals, each of which takes us farther and farther away from the point of our original betrayal.

note no.1 from the unbearable lightness of being by milan kundera

... She began to teeter as she walked, fell almost daily, bumped into things or, at the very least, dropped objects.
She was in the grip of an insuperable longing to fall. She lived in a constant state of vertigo.