Purple Lady

New Dubliners | TLS

James Joyce’s Dubliners, intertextual per se, now can be read in an even more complex way - “intertextuality within intertextuality”. Apparently, that is how we roll now. O.o 

It is only because you risk losing it that your head is precious.

—Julia Kristeva, The Severed Head: Capital Vision
(via insideoutfox)

The writer is a phobic who succeeds in metaphorizing in order to keep from being frightened to death; instead he comes to life again in signs.

—from ‘Powers of Horror’ by Julia Kristeva (via sweet-gherkins)

I live a living death, my flesh is wounded, bleeding, cadaverized, my rhythm slowed down or interrupted, time has been erased of bloated, absorbed into sorrow … Absent from other people’s meaning, alien, accidental with respect to naive happiness, I owe a supreme, metaphysical lucidity to my depression.

—Julia Kristeva
Black Sun (via becausekendra)

The pronoun I is not seeking itself, it loses itself in a series of references to logical or political events that, within the framework of either the past or the present, determine a similar mobility of a subject propelled into the whirlwind of his own fragmentation and renewal…

—Julia Kristeva (via intolerablehope)

To worry or to smile, such is the choice when we are assailed by the strange; our decision depends on how familiar we are with our own ghosts.

—Julia Kristeva (via somelittlejoy)

I stressed the love situation and I still think I was right. Because its very disturbing to speak about love. People think that either you are a little bit ethereal or that you are not aware that there are struggles and hate and violence in the world and so on. Or that you are a little bit religious or something like that. Love has become the modern obscenity, it’s more obscene than sex, you can talk about sex and violence and that’s OK; everybody knows that exists, but love is too strange.

Julia Kristeva | ‘Julia Kristeva in Conversation with Rosalind Coward’ in The Portable Kristeva (via derica)

I long to be master of my strange mood.

—Adapted and retrieved from The Dead by James Joyce.