Monday, 3 June 2019

Quill dreams

His face was long and symmetrical with an interminable chin, punctuated, just below the lip, by a tuft of hair: he thrust his jaw out slightly, with an amused expression as if he were putting on airs, pondering an objection on principle like a gentle belch. He was dreaming, holding a quill pen: he too was relaxing, dammit, this time by writing poetry.

Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea, 1938.