One wants to tell a story, like Scheherezade, in order not to die. It’s one of the oldest urges in mankind. It’s a way of stalling death.
— Carlos Fuentes
— Carlos Fuentes
i don’t understand why people are dishonest and meek and cowardly it’s so much easier to just be honest and say what is up and resolve resolve resolve rather than letting perceived slights accumulate in your little cache of passive aggressive frustration until youre brimming and suddenly we in a fight over whose dress was tackier at the Oscars
I am so grateful for directness.
— Cheryl Strayed, from Tiny Beautiful Things
|Guernica:||What do you mean when you say that Americans don’t engage with the world?|
|Rabih Alameddine:||We pick one writer from every country and think that’s what that literature is. Colombia—Gabriel García Márquez—yay! Chile—Roberto Bolaño—yay! One writer from each country begins to represent an entire worldview. I should tell you now, I represent all Lebanese. No—all Arabs. Read my books and you’ll understand what all Arabs are like. [a thoughtful pause] If I am supposed to represent the Arabs, we’re in deep shit.|
A lack of empathy isn’t cool or interesting or intelligent. It’s a maladaptive coping mechanism, nothing more or less, and it’s probably why you’re miserable.
Couldn’t tell you how surreal yesterday was. It was like bathing in salted cotton candy • Amongst the Grampains
— Rainier Maria Rilke, from “Ich bin derselbe noch, der kniete (I’m still the one who knelt before you),” from Rilke’s Book of Hours: Love Poems to God, tran. Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy (Riverhead Books, 1996)
“It is not quite as dark here as we thought. On the contrary, the interior is pulsating with light. It is, of course, the internal light of roots, a wandering phosphorescence, tiny veins of a light marbling the darkness, an evanescent shimmer of nightmarish substances. Likewise, when we sleep, severed from the world, straying into deep introversion, on a return journey into ourselves, we can see clearly through our closed eyelids, because thoughts are kindled in us by internal tapers and smolder erratically. This is how total regressions occur, retreats into self, journeys to the roots. This is how we branch out into anamnesis and are shaken by underground subcutaneous shivers. For it is only above ground, in the light of day, that we are a trembling, articulate bundle of tunes; in the depth we disintegrate again into black murmurs, confused purring, a multitude of unfinished stories.”
— Bruno Schulz, “Spring,” from Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass, translated by Celina Wieniewska
i love coconuts they have so many uses imagine feeling as useful as a coconut
Winter Prague, Hynek Šantl, 1970
Harbour wall, Tazacorte, La Palma, Canary Islands