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


→ Jul 2014

(Source: cannibal-shakes, via fiendsandfriends)

→ Jul 2014

gloomthkin:

a person of my age probably shouldn’t care this much about dead greeks

(via mirroir)

→ Jul 2014 hiwitch:

Máscaras sensoriais - Lygia Clark 1967 - Conceptual Art

Sigur Rós, Kveikur

hiwitch:

Máscaras sensoriais - Lygia Clark 1967 - Conceptual Art

Sigur Rós, Kveikur

(via stravinskysclinic)

→ Jul 2014

question: i’m not a sophist am i? does worrying about the potential outward appearance of pseudo-intellectuality constitute actual pseudo-intellectuality?

→ Jul 2014

question: am i doing this tumblr thing wrong? should i sacrifice the burdensome quotes for just, like, pictures and witty text posts?

→ Jul 2014

On And On (Fears Keep On) by Decadance
→ Jul 2014 aquaticwonder:

Igor Stravinsky (1946)

aquaticwonder:

Igor Stravinsky (1946)

(via le-bateauivre)

→ Jul 2014 "Unfortunately I am a completely impractical person, caught up in endless trains of thought. All of us are fantasists, ill-equipped for life, the children as much as myself. It seems to me sometimes that we never got used to being on this earth and life is just one great, ongoing, incomprehensible blunder." — W. G. Sebald — from The Rings of Saturn
→ Jul 2014

(Source: furples, via lyricaltrainspotter)

→ Jul 2014

thenightlymirror:

I know all of us are friends here because we can’t relate to anyone, but for the sake of vain catharsis, wouldn’t it be nice to relate to someone? I am so trapped in this house. If I just knew someone with a DVD collection. It is a bit much to ask for, to be in a stable universe on a watery planet a certain distance from the sun with every other luxury and privilege one can dream of at my disposal, but my sick sick mind is just bored to death. I should just relax and stop feeling so guilty about it. There’s nothing to do. It doesn’t all have to be done at once. I’m anxious to have everything immediately. It makes my free time unbearable.

→ Jul 2014 "The end has come and there is nothing, he said, and even if there is something, it is only the squalid fulfillment of that process, hidden at first, which has made chance, even more blatant, and then finally insolent vulgarity—shaming even the most horrifying premonitions—completely victorious; because there was an age when something reached its own culmination, the height of its own boundless possibilities, for it is not the case—no, not at all—that each age is granted its own articulatory world, a world incomparable with the others, and that the art of every single epoch, for each given genre, carries the inner hypothesis of its own internal structure to perfection; no, decisively no; still, it is true, well; I, he added, am speaking of something else, that is to say that there lies before us, after the hazy bestial zero, a long continuum arising from all the noises and rhythms having to do with music, which then reaches—as it did indeed reach a perfection no longer perfectible—the roof of a seemingly infinite celestial vault, a particular border of Heaven close to the godly spheres, so that something—in this case music—comes into being, is born, unfolds, but then it’s all over, no more, what must come has come; the realm dies away, and yet lives on in this divine form, and for all eternity its echo remains, for we may evoke it, as we do evoke it to this very day and shall evoke it for as long as we can, even if as an ever more faint reflection of the original, a tired and ever more uncertain echo, a misunderstanding ever more despairing from year to year, from decade to decade, in a disintegrating memory that no longer has a world, no longer shatters people’s hearts; no longer elevates them to that place of such achingly sweet perfection, because this is what happened, he said, and he straightened his suspenders, such a music came into being that shattered people’s hearts, if I listen to it, I still feel, at some given point, after an unexpected beat, I feel, if not that my heart is being shattered, that at least it is falling apart, as I collapse from this sweet pain, because this music gives me everything in such a way that it also annihilates me, because how could anyone think that they could get away without paying the price for all of this, well, how could we even imagine that it is even possible to traverse that distance where this music exists and not be annihilated one hundred, one thousand times—if I listen to them, I am in a thousand tiny pieces, because you can’t just roam around in the company of the geniuses of inexplicable musical fulfillment and at the same time, say, be able to fill out a personal income tax form or prepare the technical blueprint for a building while this music is sinking to the depths of your heart, well, it doesn’t work, either this person filling out tax forms or completing technical blueprints is annihilated, or will never understand where he has arrived…" — László Krasznahorkai — from Seiobo There Below
→ Jul 2014 "It would be better for you to turn around and go into the thick grasses, there where one of those strange grassy islets in the riverbed will completely cover you, it would be better if you do this for once and for all, because if you come back tomorrow, or after tomorrow, there will be no one at all to understand, no one to look, not even a single one among all your natural enemies that will be able to see who you really are; it would be better for you to go away this very evening when twilight begins to fall, it would be better for you to retreat with the others, if night begins to descend, and you should not come back if tomorrow, or after tomorrow, dawn breaks, because for you it will be much better for there to be no tomorrow and no day after tomorrow; so hide away now in the grass, sink down, fall onto your side, let your eyes slowly close, and die, for there is no point in the sublimity that you bear, die at midnight in the grass, sink down and fall, and let it be like that — breathe your last." — László Krasznahorkai — from Seiobo There Below
→ Jul 2014
→ Jul 2014 "

A philanthropic journalist says that solitude is bad for mankind; and he supports his proposition, like all unbelievers, with citations from the Church Fathers.

I know that the wilderness is a favorite haunt of the Devil and that the Spirit of lubricity is kindled in lonely places. But it is not possible that this solitude is dangerous only for those idle and vagrant souls who people it with their own passions and chimeras.

Certainly a garrulous man, whose chief pleasure in life is to declaim from pulpit or rostrum, would run the risk of becoming a raving maniac on Robinson Crusoe’s island. I do not insist on my journalist having all the virtues and the courage of Crusoe. But I do object to his directing his imputation against the lovers of solitude and mystery.

Chattering humanity is full of individuals who would face the death penalty with less horror if, from the top of the scaffold, they were permitted to make a mighty harangue with no fear of an untimely interruption from the drums of Santerre.

I do not pity them, since I feel that their oratorical effusions procure them pleasures quite equal to those which others derive from silence and self-communion; but I despise them.

All I ask of my cursed journalist is to be allowed to amuse myself in my own way. “And so,” he says with his most evangelical and nasal inflection, “you never feel the need of sharing your pleasures?” Ah, the subtle envy! He knows that I scorn his pleasures and he tries to insinuate himself into mine, the odious kill-joy!

"The greatest misfortune of not being able to be alone! …" says La Bruyère somewhere, as though to shame those who have to go into crowds to forget themselves, doubtless fearing that they could not endure themselves alone.

"Almost all out ills come from not staying in our own room," says another wise man, I believe it was Pascal, recalling from his cell of self-communion all those madmen who seek happiness in activity and in what I might call, to use the wonderful language of the day, the brotherhood of prostitution.

" — Charles Baudelaire — “Solitude” from Paris Spleen
→ Jul 2014
my favorite reoccurring phrase from The Recognitions

"—Just, the Italian was difficult, I didn’t know all the words, but the pictures … that? that monogram, with the anchor? —Yes, Gwyon murmured catching it under his thumb, —Clement’s monogram, he was martyred, yes here, gettato a mare con un’ancora … they tied an anchor to his neck and threw him into the Black Sea.

—Yes into the sea with an anchor? like the man you told me about? The anchor caught on the tombstone, and the man coming down the rope in the celestial sea to free it, and he drowned? Listen, … But Gwyon, fearing the delirium it might forebode, hurried out of the room studying the picture of the subterranean sanctuary discovered beneath the basilica of Saint Clement of Rome, a sudden light in his eyes as though his senses were afloat with vapors from two thousand years before.”

pg. 44

"—Can’t you imagine that we’re fished for? Walking on the bottom of a great celestial sea, do you remember the man who came down the rope to undo the anchor caught on the tombstone?"

pg. 115

"—When I was sick in bed, he read to me from Otia Imperialia. The twelfth century, Gervase of Tilbury, when people could believe that our atmosphere was a celestial sea, a sea to the people who lived above it. This story was about some people coming out of church, and they saw an anchor dangling by a rope from the sky. The anchor caught in the tombstones, and then they watched and saw a man coming down the rope, to unhook it. But when he reached the earth they went over to him and he was dead … He looked up at both of them from the glass. —Dead as though he’d been drowned.”

pg. 257

"—Now, remember? Who was it, "gettato a mare," remember? an anchor tied to his neck? and thrown, caught by kelpies and martyred, remember? in the celestial sea. Here, maybe we’re fished for."

pg. 382