We Await Silent Tristero's Empire
Suddenly, no, at last--

→ Aug 2014 "Since he had been thinking about poets, it was easy to remember all of those who had denounced the solitude of man among his fellows, the comedy of greetings, the “excuse me” when people met on the stairs, the seat that is given to women on the subway, the brotherhood observed in politics and sports. Only a biological and sexual optimism is capable of covering up the isolation of some, no matter what John Donne might have felt about it. Contacts made in action in tribes in work in bed on the ballfield were contacts between branches and leaves which reached out and caressed each other from tree to tree while the trunks stood there disdainfully and irreconcilably parallel. “Underneath it all we could be what we are on the surface,” Oliveira thought, “but we would have to live in a different way. And what does it mean to live in a different way? Maybe to live absurdly in order to do away with the absurd, to dive into one’s self with such force that the leap will end up in the arms of someone else. Yes, maybe love, but that otherness lasts only as long as a woman lasts, and besides only as everything concerns that woman. Basically there is no such thing as otherness, maybe just that pleasant thing called togetherness. Of course, that is something …” Love, an ontologizing ceremony, a giver of being. And that is why he was thinking only now of what he should have thought about in the beginning: without the possession of self, there was no possession of otherness, and who could really possess himself? Who had come back from himself, from that absolute solitude which meant not even being in one’s own company, having to go to the movies or to a whorehouse or to friends’ houses or to get involved in a time-consuming profession or in marriage so that at least one could be alone-along-with-all-the-others? That’s how, paradoxically, solitude would lead to the heights of sociability, to the great illusion of the company of others, to the solitary man in a maze of mirrors and echoes. But people like him and so many others (or those who reject themselves but know themselves close up) got into the worst paradox, the one of reaching the border of otherness perhaps and not being able to cross over. That true otherness made up of delicate contacts, marvelous adjustments with the world, could not be attained from just one point; the outstretched hand had to find response in another hand stretched out from the beyond, from the other part." — Julio Cortázar — from Hopscotch trans. Gregory Rabassa
→ Aug 2014 "It’s not so much that we’re alone, that’s a well-known fact that any fool can plainly see. Being alone is basically being alone on a certain level in which other lonelinesses could communicate with us if that were the case. But bring on any conflict, an accident in the street or a declaration of war, provoke the brutal crossing of different levels, and a man who is perhaps an outstanding Sanskrit scholar or a quantum physicist becomes a pépère in the eyes of the stretcher-bearer who arrives on the scene. Edgar Allen Poe on a stretcher, Verlaine in the hands of a sawbones, Nerval and Artaud facing psychiatrists. What could that Italian Galen have known about Keats as he bled him and helped him die of hunger? If men like them are silent, as is most likely, the others will triumph blindly, without evil intent, of course, without knowing that the consumptive over there, that injured man lying naked on that bed, are doubly alone, surrounded by beings who move about as if behind a glass, from a different place in time …" — Julio Cortázar — from Hopscotch trans. Gregory Rabassa
→ Aug 2014

(via femaleflaneur)

→ Aug 2014 clja:




(via journalofanobody)

→ Aug 2014

In four U.S. states a severely disabled child can sue a doctor for “wrongful life” for bringing him into the world. In 1980 the California Court of Appeal wrote:

The reality of the ‘wrongful-life’ concept is that such a plaintiff both exists and suffers, due to the negligence of others. It is neither necessary nor just to retreat into meditation on the mysteries of life. We need not be concerned with the fact that had defendants not been negligent, the plaintiff might not have come into existence at all. The certainty of genetic impairment is no longer a mystery. In addition, a reverent appreciation of life compels recognition that plaintiff, however impaired she may be, has come into existence as a living person with certain rights.

→ Aug 2014

(Source: adrieldaniel, via hidden-war)

→ Aug 2014

Death Of The Author by Jenny Hval
→ Aug 2014 "

"I reflect now that the earth is only a pebble flicked off accidentally from the face of the sun and that there is no life anywhere in the abysses of space."

"In this silence," said Susan, "it seems as if no leaf would ever fall, or bird fly."

"As if the miracle had happened," said Jinny, "and life were stayed here and now."

"And," said Rhoda, "we had no more to live."

"But listen," said Louis, "to the world moving through the abysses of infinite space. It roars; the lighted strip of history is past and our Kings and Queens; we are gone; our civilisation; the Nile; and all life. Our separate drops are dissolved; we are extinct, lost in the abysses of time, in the darkness."

"Silence falls; silence falls," said Bernard. "But now listen, tick, tick; hoot, hoot; the world has hailed us back to it. I heard for one moment the howling winds of darkness as we passed beyond life. Then tick, tick (the clock); then hoot, hoot (the cars). We are landed; we are on shore; we are sitting, six of us, at a table. It is the memory of my nose that recalls me. I rise; ‘Fight,’ I cry, ‘fight!’ remembering the shape of my own nose and strike with this spoon upon this table pugnaciously."

"Oppose ourselves to this illimitable chaos," said Neville, "this formless imbecility. Making love to a nursemaid behind a tree, that soldier is more admirable than all the stars. Yet sometimes one trembling star comes in the clear sky and makes me think the world beautiful and we maggots deforming even the trees with out lust."

(“Yet, Louis,” said Rhoda, “how short a time silence lasts. Already they are beginning to smooth their napkins by the side of their plates. ‘Who comes?’ says Jinny; and Neville sighs, remembering that Percival comes no more. Jinny has taken out her looking-glass. Surveying her face like an artist, she draws a powderpuff down her nose, and after one moment of deliberation, has given precisely that red to the lips that the lips need. Susan, who feels scorn and fear at the sight of these preparations, fastens the top button of her coat, and unfastens it. What is she making ready for? For something, but something different.”

"They are saying to themselves," said Louis, “‘it is time. I am still vigorous,’ they are saying, ‘My face shall be cut against the black of infinite space.’ They do not finish their sentences. ‘It is time,’ they keep saying. ‘The gardens will be shut.’ And going with them, Rhoda, swept into their current, we shall perhaps drop a little behind."

"Like conspirators who have something to whisper," said Rhoda.)

" — Virginia Woolf — from The Waves
→ Aug 2014 "In my moon suit and funeral veil, I am no source of honey." — Sylvia Plath (via annaleenoir)

(via twinpeakspie)

→ Aug 2014

(Source: erble, via twinpeakspie)

→ Aug 2014 b-a-c-u:

„Aversa” Pump Factory, Bucharest, Romania, built in 1965


„Aversa” Pump Factory, Bucharest, Romania, built in 1965

(via hhlil)

→ Aug 2014 "A million hands stitch, raise hods with bricks. The activity is endless. And tomorrow it begins again; tomorrow we make Saturday. Some take train for France; others ship for India. Some will never come into this room again. One may die tonight. Another will beget a child. From us every sort of building, policy, venture, picture, poem, child, factory, will spring. Life comes; life goes; we make life. So you say." — Virginia Woolf — from The Waves
→ Aug 2014 ineslendinez:

The Adventures of Baron Munchausen


The Adventures of Baron Munchausen

(via casabet64)

→ Aug 2014 "

Guil: You lost. Well then—one of the Greeks, perhaps? You’re familiar with the tragedies of antiquity, are you? The great homicidal classics? Matri, patri, fratri, sorrori, uxori, and it goes without saying—

Ros: Saucy—

Guil: —Suicidal—hm? Maidens aspiring to godheads—

Ros: And vice versa—

Guil: Your kind of thing, is it?

Player: Well, no, I can’t say it is, really. We’re more of the blood, love and rhetoric school.

Guil: Well, I’ll leave the choice to you, if there is anything to choose between them.

Player: They’re hardly divisible, sir—well, I can do you blood and love without the rhetoric, and I can do you blood and rhetoric without the love, and I can do you all three concurrent or consecutive, but I can’t do you love and rhetoric without the blood. Blood is compulsory—they’re all blood, you see.

" — Tom Stoppard — from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead
→ Aug 2014

one of my favorite feelings is buying sheet music after listening to a particular piece for weeks and stumbling through the melodies that you know by heart and slowly you piece it together and here you glimpse it and because you’re reading the music for the first time all of the intricacies of genius are visible apart from the amassed whole of sound that you will later perfect, but just that complete contemplation of each note i love it

here’s my program for first semester:
rachmaninoff - piano concerto no 2 in C minor, op 18 movement 2
chopin - scherzo no 2 in b-flat minor op 31
chopin - ballade no 1 in g minor op 23
schubert - 4 impromptus, d 899