"Ella quería que fuese suyo por completo y ser ella por completo de él, pero con frecuencia le pa­recía que cuanto más trataba de dárselo todo, más le negaba algo: lo que da precisamente el amor carente de profundidad y superficial, lo que da el flirt. Sufría por no saber ser, además de seria, ligera."

El falso autostop. El libro de los amores ridículos. 1968. Milan Kundera.

"You got to tell me, brave captain,

why are the wicked so strong?

How do the angels get to sleep

when the devil leaves the porch-light on?"

Extracto de Mr. Siegal, album Hartattack and Vine, 1980, Tom Waits, 

Fotos: Match Point, 2005, Woody Allen.

"...Every woman adores a Fascist,

The boot in the face, the brute

Brute heart of a brute like you..."

Daddy, 1962. Sylvia Plath.

Limbo dance. realiq.worldpress.com

"Life is a limbo dance,

 but it's a question of where you get down,

not how low you can get"

Fotograma con Tom Waits, extraido de "Down by Law", 1986. Jim Harmush

"It's not the fall that kills you,

it's the sudden stop"

Dangerous Liaisons. 1988

Que los ruidos te perforen los dientes,
como una lima de dentista,
y la memoria se te llene de herrumbre,
de olores descompuestos y de palabras rotas.
Que te crezca, en cada uno de los poros, una pata de araña;
que sólo puedas alimentarte de barajas usadas
y que el sueño te reduzca, como una aplanadora,
al espesor de tu retrato.
Que al salir a la calle,
hasta los faroles te corran a patadas;
que un fanatismo irresistible te obligue a prosternarte
ante los tachos de basura
y que todos los habitantes de la ciudad
te confundan con un madero.
Que cuando quieras decir: "Mi amor",
digas: "Pescado frito";
que tus manos intenten estrangularte a cada rato,
y que en vez de tirar el cigarrillo,
seas tú el que te arrojes en las salivaderas.
Que tu mujer te engañe hasta con los buzones;
que al acostarse junto a ti,
se metamorfosee en sanguijuela,
y que después de parir un cuervo,
alumbre una llave inglesa.
Que tu familia se divierta en deformarte el esqueleto,
para que los espejos, al mirarte,
se suiciden de repugnancia;
que tu único entretenimiento consista en instalarte
en la sala de espera de los dentistas,
disfrazado de cocodrilo,
y que te enamores, tan locamente,
de una caja de hierro,
que no puedas dejar, ni por un solo instante,
de lamerle la cerradura.

Que los ruidos te perforen los dientes.  Oliverio Girondo

Can you love me? 

Can you love? 

Can we love?

"Amelia". 2002, La La La Human Steps.

"By the time we grow up we become masters at dissimulation, at cultivating a self that the world cannot probe. But we pay a price. After years of turning people away, of protecting our inner self, of cultivating it by living in a different world, of furnishing this world with our fantasies and dreams—lo and behold we find that we are hopelessly separated from everyone else. We have become victims of our own art. We touch people on the outsides of their bodies, and they us, but we cannot get at their insides and cannot reveal our insides to them. This is one of the great tragedies of interiority—it is utterly personal and unrevealable. Often we want to say something unusually intimate to a spouse, a parent, a friend, communicate something of how we are really feeling about a sunset, who we really feel we are—only to fall strangely and miserably flat. Once in a great while we succeed, sometimes more with one person, less or never with others. But the occasional break-through only proves the rule. You reach out with a disclosure, fail, and fall back bitterly into yourself. We emit huge globs of love to our parents and spouses, and the glob slithers away in exchanges of words that are somehow beside the point of what we are trying to say. People seem to keep bumping up against each other with their exteriors and falling away from each other. Take even the sexual act—the most intimate merger given to organisms. For most people, even for their entire lives, it is a physical overcoming of separateness, not a symbolic revelation and justification of one’s interior. Many people pursue sex precisely because it is a mystique of the overcoming of the separateness of the inner world; and they go from one partner to another because they can never quite achieve ‘it.’ So the endless interrogations: ‘What are you thinking about right now—me? Do you feel what I feel? Do you love me?"

Ernest Becker, 1962. The Birth and Death of Meaning: A Perspective in Psychiatry and Anthropology.