|
Aprīlis 23., 2019
 | 15:56
Went into the bush. For a moment I was frightened. Had to compose myself. Tried to look into my own heart. "What is my inner life?" No reason to be satisfied with myself. The work I am doing is a kind of opiate rather than a creative expression. I am not trying to link it to deeper sources. To organize it. Reading novels is simply disastrous. Went to bed and thought about other things in an impure way.
/Bronislaw Malinowski
|
Comments:
''thought about other things in an impure way'' - ha, haven't we all |
|
|
|
|
|
Sviesta Ciba |
![[info]](http://klab.lv/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}