Donald Barthelme

The aim of literature … is the creation of a strange object covered with fur which breaks your heart.

The aim of literature … is the creation of a strange object covered with fur which breaks your heart.

– Donald Barthelme –

Come Back

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He gave it its present name, and lived here shut up: day and night poring over the wicked heaps of papers in the suit, and hoping against hope to disentangle it from its mystification and bring it to a close. In the meantime, the place became dilapidated, the wind whistled through the cracked walls, the rain fell through the broken roof, the weeds choked the passage to the rotting door. When I brought what remained of him home here, the brains seemed to me to have been blown out of the house too; it was so shattered and ruined.

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