Bookmarker is a personal project by @dellsystem to help with retaining reading material. Source on GitHub.

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You added a note
1 year, 1 month ago

let's suppose that I asked you now inspo/attraction-watershed

There was a brief silence and then I asked, 'Why should a woman who's free to do as she pleases sleep with everyone on earth?'

He looked at me severely. 'If a man, a man for whom you might have a little liking, asked you straight out to spend the night with him, would you do it?'

'That depend…

—p.80 The Mandarins by Simone de Beauvoir
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1 year, 1 month ago

it was just that we hadn't suffered enough

'When my friends were exiled to Siberia, I was in Vienna; when others were being slaughtered by the Brown Shirts in Vienna, I was in New York. What's so damned important about staying alive? That's the question that needs answering.'

I found myself moved by Scriassine's voice. We, too, felt asha…

—p.78 by Simone de Beauvoir
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1 year, 1 month ago

so many things one would like to preserve with words why/write

The next morning the radio confirmed the German collapse. 'It's really the beginning of peace,' Henri repeated to himself, sitting down at his desk. 'At last I can start writing again!' He would, he assured himself, write every day from now on. But what exactly would he write? He didn't know and he…

—p.57 by Simone de Beauvoir
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1 year, 1 month ago

there's nothing left but to be silent

[...] If now he finds himself condemned once more to impotence, to solitude, everything will seem useless to him, even writing. Especially writing. Between '25 and '32, when he was holding himself in check, he wrote, yes. But it was a lot different then. He still had close ties with the Communists …

—p.55 by Simone de Beauvoir
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1 year, 1 month ago

trudging along through emptiness

[...] Up to then I hadn't been unhappy, but neither had I been happy. I was always in good health and occasionally I had moments which I enjoyed. But most of the time I was plainly and simply disconsolate. Foolishness, lies, injustice, suffering; all around me a deep, black chaos. And how absurd it…

—p.52 by Simone de Beauvoir