Shakespeare died in Stratford on April 23, 1616, a Tuesday.
Cervantes died in Madrid on April 23, 1616, a Saturday.
The difference being the Julian calendar and the Gregorian. Cervantes died ten days earlier." — David Markson — from Reader’s Block
what would you like to know
Charles Mingus wrote and recorded the score to a ballet — The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady — which fucking rocks
1.”Track A – Solo Dancer” ”Stop! Look! And Listen, Sinner Jim Whitney!”
2.”Track B – Duet Solo Dancers” ”Hearts’ Beat and Shades in Physical Embraces”
3.”Track C – Group Dancers” ”(Soul Fusion) Freewoman and Oh, This Freedom’s Slave Cries”
4.”Mode D – Trio and Group Dancers” ”Stop! Look! And Sing Songs of Revolutions!”
"Mode E – Single Solos and Group Dance" "Saint and Sinner Join in Merriment on Battle Front"
"Mode F – Group and Solo Dance" "Of Love, Pain, and Passioned Revolt, then Farewell, My Beloved, ‘til It’s Freedom Day"
besides affection, the only, like, deep sentiment i’ve ever felt towards another person — also disregarding the problems that desire is quenched once an object is achieved and mutual adoration is also highly questionable – are those with whom i’ve never interacted.
take, for example, a concert i went to in portland about a year back. i saw the most beautiful girl i had ever seen. she was perfect — see, here i go idolizing. but, anyways, i asked her for a cigarette and she smelled like roses and we smoked together in silence and then she left and i haven’t seen her since. i don’t know her name.
for me at least, the only love i am capable of holding is that of pure creation. selection and a certain strengthening of nature. of course it’s destructive, as all art is, but in my inactivity and delirium i ask for nothing more.
that is an emphatic no.
In his old age, the time traveler went back to die in his parents’ bedroom.
"A Quiet Legend"
Every morning, the last man in the world went into a second-hand bookstore, where he sat and read. From time to time he marked a page by folding down its corner.
I heard tell of a king from a southern kingdom, who commanded his alchemists to concoct a perfume that would smell exactly like old books. The alchemists rejoiced: At last! A simpler task than distilling gold out of urine! They began to work day and night, destroying books and burning covers and crumbling pages. They achieved some good results, and almost discovered penicillin on the way. But one night, as in all legends, the king suffocated in his sleep and died. His beloved son, heir to the throne, immediately gave orders for a deep grave to be dug for his father in the heart of the desert, where he would be buried with all of his wives and his servants and his books and his camels. One of the alchemists had written the final formula for the perfume in the margins of a book that was also tossed into the grave. And other storytellers add that the sand, as it is wont to do for both great and small, covered it all.
Due to a tiny crack in the time-space continuum, E. received a remarkably polite rejection letter from a publisher for a novel he had not written. He threw the letter in the trash and forgot about it. A few days later another one arrived, from a different publisher, with lavish praise for the imagination and style, followed by a sincere apology for the novel being “unsuited to this publisher’s overall line.” And then another one. E. noticed that his wife sometimes came home late from work, claiming things were busy at the office. One evening he switched on all the electrical appliances in the house, and the bulb in the closet burnt out. His wife started turning off her cell phone in the afternoons. He repeated the experiment with the bulb a few more times. On the coat rack next to the front door he found a scarf he did not remember she had. The letters kept arriving. This went on month after month. Finally, he gave in and bought a typewriter at a secondhand shop.
Her parents reminisce: as a child, instead of using a bookmark, she would write in books with a marker: “I’m here.” “I’m here.” “I’m here.”
"On Elderly Poets (and Love)"
At the age of seventy-seven, after another stroke, he wrote his wife a poem he could not remember if he had already written when he was thirty. Either way, love is merely a crease in the present time.
And it happens this way too: A man walked out of his apartment, but turned back after a few steps to make sure he hadn’t forgotten to lock the door, and then he stepped into the elevator and went down and wondered whether, while checking if his door was locked, he might have turned the key the wrong way, thereby in fact opening it, so he went back up to make sure, and when he finally managed to get out onto the street he discovered that it had started to rain and he had no umbrella. He went back to his apartment, locked the door from the inside, closed all the windows, shoved a rag under the door and turned on the gas.
— Alex Epstein — “Seven Stories” from For My Next Illusion I Will Use Wings”
(via Night — Ferdinand Hodler)
Cartography of the Moon’s near side (via northmagneticpole)
would you - any of you - be interested in reading something i’ve just written?
Pity is my way of loving. Of hating and communicating. It is what sustains me against the world, just as one person lives through desire, another through fear. Pity for things that happen without my knowledge. But I’m tired, in spite of my cheer today, cheer that comes from goodness knows where, like that of an early summer morning. I’m tired, acutely now! Let us cry together, quietly.
For having suffered and continuing on so sweetly. Tired pain in a simplified tear. But this was a yearning for poetry, that I confess, God. Let us sleep hand in hand. The world rolls and somewhere out there are things I don’t know. Let us sleep on God and mystery, a quiet, fragile ship floating on the sea, behold sleep." — Clarice Lispector — from Near to the Wild Heart