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

→ Apr 2014


New Colour Work - 1991

→ Apr 2014 "But the fact is that writing is the only way in which I am able to cope with the memories which overwhelm me so frequently and so unexpectedly. If they remained locked away, they would become heavier and heavier as time went on, so that in the end I would succumb under their mounting weight. Memories lie slumbering within us for months and years, quietly proliferating, until they are woken by some trifle and in some strange way blind us to life. How often this has caused me to feel that my memories, and the labours expended in writing them down are all part of the same humiliating and, at bottom, contemptible business! And yet, what would we be without memory? We would not be capable of ordering even the simplest thoughts, the most sensitive heart would lose the ability to show affection, our existence would be a mere neverending chain of meaningless moments, and there would not be the faintest trace of a past. How wretched this life of ours is!—so full of false conceits, so futile, that it is little more than the shadow of the chimeras loosed by memory. My sense of estrangement is becoming more and more dreadful." — W. G. Sebald — from The Rings of Saturn
→ Apr 2014 "In one of his last notes he mentions the chaos of the universe and says that only in chaos are we conceivable. In another, he wonders what will be left when the universe dies and time and space die with it. Zero, nothing. But the idea makes him laugh. Behind every answer lies a question, Ansky remembers the peasants of Kostekino say. Behind ever indisputable answer lies an even more complex question. Complexity, however, makes him laugh, and sometimes his mother hears him laugh in the attic, like the ten-year-old boy he once was. Ansky ponders parallel universes. Around this time Hitler invades Poland and World War II begins. Warsaw falls, Paris falls, the Soviet Union is attacked. Only in chaos are we conceivable. One night Ansky dreams the sky is a great ocean of blood. On the last page of his notebook he sketches a map to join the guerrillas." — Roberto Bolaño — from 2666
→ Apr 2014

i need new music. it’s not that i’ve become bored with my favorites (mbv, radiohead, slowdive, beach house, john maus - for a few) because that’s not possible, but i need something new and beautiful. give me something, tumblr. 

→ Apr 2014

"…and that wherever they might be they always remember that the past was a lie, that memory has no return, that every spring gone by could never be recovered, and that the wildest and most tenacious love was an ephemeral truth in the end."

except for his smile though

→ Apr 2014


Concept art for The Fault in Our Stars (2014)

(via carljungmoney)

→ Apr 2014 "Before we go any further here, has it ever occurred to any of you that all this is simply one grand misunderstanding? Since you’re not here to learn anything, but to be taught so you can pass these tests, knowledge has to be organized so it can be taught, and it has to be reduced to information so it can be organized do you follow that? In other words this leads you to assume that organization is an inherent property of the knowledge itself, and that disorder and chaos are simply irrelevant forces that threaten it from the outside. In fact it’s the opposite. Order is simply a thin, perilous condition we try to impose on the basic reality of chaos …" — William Gaddis — from J R
→ Apr 2014

Exclamation points in Tom Wolfe’s The Bonfire of the Vanities: 2,343

Number of years George Bush has been citing Bonfire of the Vanities as an example of his pleasure reading: 2

→ Apr 2014 karlihenneman:

John Baldessari


John Baldessari

(via seven-middagh)

→ Apr 2014 "The Brontë sisters, Charlotte and Emily, firmly believed that all of their books were inspired by a cat. That is, they considered that the cat, Tabitha, acted as a sort of spirit control or medium. Emily could not write when the cat was staying with Charlotte, and Charlotte could not write when the cat was staying with Emily. The death of Tabitha (1843) was followed by a period of dryness broken only when Anne Brontë appeared with a basket of clairvoyant penguins." — Donald Barthelme — from “Natural History” 
→ Apr 2014 "Many ideas turn into lifelong disfigurements,” he said. The ideas often surprised one years later, but sooner or later they would always make the one who had had them look ridiculous. The ideas came from a place they never left. They would always remain there, in that place: it was the place of dreams. “The idea doesn’t exist that can be expunged or expunge itself. The idea is actual, and remains so.” Last night, he had been thinking about pain. “Pain doesn’t exist. A necessary illusion,” he said. Pain wasn’t pain, not in the way a cow was a cow. “The word ‘pain’ directs the attention of a feeling toward a feeling. Pain is overplus. But the illusion of it is real.” Accordingly, pain both was and was not. “But there is no pain,” he said. “Just as there is no happiness. Found an architecture on pain.” All thoughts and images were as involuntary as the concepts: chemistry, physics, geometry. “You have to understand these concepts to know something. To know everything.” Philosophy didn’t take you a single step nearer. “Nothing is progressive, but nothing is less progressive than philosophy. Progress is tripe. Impossible.” The observations of mathematics were foundational. “Oh, yes,” he said, “in mathematics everything’s child’s play.” And just like so-called child’s play, mathematics could finish you. “If you’ve crossed the border, and you suddenly no longer get the joke, and see what the world’s about, don’t see what anything’s about anymore. Everything’s just the imagining of pain. A dog has as much gravity as a human being, but he hasn’t lived, do you understand!” One day I would cross a threshold into an enormous park, an endless and beautiful park; in this park one ingenious invention would succeed another. Plants and music would follow in lovely mathematical alternation, delightful to the ear and answering to the utmost notions of delicacy; but this park was not there to be used, or wandered about in, because it consisted of a thousand and one small and minuscule square and rectilinear and circular islets, pieces of lawn, each of them so individual that I would be unable to leave the one on which I was standing. “In each case, there is a breadth and depth of water that prevents one from hopping from one island to another. In my imagining. On the piece of grass which one has reached, how is a mystery, on which one has woken up, and where one is compelled to stay,” one would finally perish of hunger and thirst. “One’s longing to be able to walk through the whole park is finally deadly." — Thomas Bernhard — from Frost
→ Apr 2014 platonicblog:

Raf Simons A/W 2010 Casting.


Raf Simons A/W 2010 Casting.

(via chungbung)

→ Apr 2014

Anger? ‘t is safe never. Bar it! Use love!

Evoles ut ira breve nefas sit; regna!

→ Apr 2014

(Source: rasplove, via boyirl)

→ Apr 2014
From Joseph T. Shipley’s The Origin of English Words: A Discursive Dictionary of Indo-European Roots

Omnes animal post coitum triste est: Every animal, after coition, is sad. In Memories (1966), E. M. Bowra was reminded, by this, of the London firm of solicitors Mann, Rogers and Greaves. (The Germanic name Hrodgar: Roger, meant famed for the spear.) Roger, meaning “got ya,” O.K. is drawn from the radio practice of using names to identify letters; Roger (for the letter R) an abbreviation of “message received, understood, and accepted.” Roger: “I’ll take care of it.”

Gc, aft, after; ebb. of, off, offal *what falls off). evening, eftsoons. Via norse öfugr: turned backward, E awkwardApril, when the days are clearly extending.

"Hold off! Unhand me, grey-beard loon!"
Eftsoons his hand dropt he.
—Coleridge, The Ancient Mariner

Whaane that Aprille with his shoures sote
The droghte of March hath perced to the rote …
[So Chaucer starts his pilgrimage to Canterbury.]

Freud, in The Psychotherapy of Everyday Life, 8, makes one of his characteristic leaps in the dark: “Occasionally I have had to admit to myself that the annoying, awkward stepping aside in the street, whereby for some seconds one steps … always in the same direction as the other person … conceals erotic purposes under the mask of awkwardness.” As Sir Thomas Browne noted, in Hydriotaphia (1958), “The long habit of living indisposeth us from dying.”