February 2012
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“I can’t think of any greater happiness than to be with you all the time, without...”
– Franz Kafka, The Castle (via philphys)
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“Ocean, Ocean I’ll beat you in the end.”
– Ken Kesey’s fake suicide note; he actually faked his death and fled to Mexico to avoid drug charges.
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“It’s after one and you must be asleep.
Or maybe you can feel the night as...”
– from the suicide note of Vladimir Mayakovsky, 1930 (trans. Erik Korn)
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Love is Not All
Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain; Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink And rise and sink and rise and sink again; Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath, Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; Yet many a man is making friends with death Even as I speak, for lack of love alone. It well may be that in a difficult hour, Pinned...
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Karamazov vs. Karamazov
And with which of them was Alyosha to sympathise? And what was he to wish for each of them? He loved them both, but what could he desire for each in the midst of these conflicting interests? He might go quite astray in this maze, and Alyosha’s heart could not endure uncertainty, because his love was always of an active character.
He was incapable of passive love. If he loved anyone, he set...
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Natacha Atlas — “Mon Amie la Rose”...
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“But he had a feeling that life was to be lived rather than portrayed, and he...”
– W. Somerset Maugham, Of Human Bondage, 1915
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American Football
Hallelujah! It works. We blew the shit out of them. We blew the shit right back up their own ass And out their fucking ears. It works. We blew the shit out of them. They suffocated in their own shit! Hallelujah. Praise the Lord for all good things. We blew them into fucking shit. They are eating it. Praise the Lord for all good things. We blew their balls into shards of dust, Into shards of...
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January 2012
35 posts
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“It was a splendid morning too. Like the pulse of a perfect heart, life struck...”
– Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway, 1925 (via leopoldgursky)
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Sackville-West vs. Woolf
I am reduced to a thing that wants Virginia.
I composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless, nightmare hours of the night, and it has all gone: I just miss you, in a quite simple, desperate, human way. You, with all your undumb letters, would never write so elementary a phrase as that; perhaps you wouldn’t even feel it. And yet I believe you’ll be sensible of a little gap. But you’d clothe...
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“L’homme n’est rien, l’oeuvre — tout.”
– Gustave Flaubert in an 1875 letter to George Sand (trans: “The man is nothing, the work — all.”)
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american-living:
“Threnody for the Victims Of...
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“Those who speak know nothing: Those who know are silent.” Those words, I am told, Were spoken by Lao-tzu, If we are to believe that Lao-tzu Was himself one who knew, How comes it that he wrote a book of five thousand words?
—Po Chu-I, “The Philosophers: Lao-Tzu,” from The Book of Luminous Things and translated from the Mandarin by Arthur Waley
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