February 2012
58 posts
“October knew, of course, that the action of turning a page, of ending a chapter...”
– Neil Gaiman, Season of Mists (via metanoiamuseum)
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Montaigne, On the Power of the Imagination:
Some choice excerpts:
“St Augistine claims to have seen a man who could command his bottom to break wind as often as he wished, and Vives, his commentator, caps him with another case from his own day of a man who could synchronize his blasts to the metre of verses that were read to him.”
“Indeed, I know one such that is so turbulent and so intractable that for the last forty...
“How are you, How’s poetry, How’s X, How’s Y, even the right ones
insist on...”
– Poems vs. the Volcano: Where The Wild Things Are
This is lovely.
“I have to have all space and all time participate in my emotion, in my mortal...”
– Vladimir Nabokov, Speak, Memory (via apidae)
I have ten little fingers and they all belong to me, I can make them do things-would you like to see? I can shut them up tight, I can open them wide, I can put them together, I can make them all hide. I can make them jump high, I can make them jump low. I can fold them up quietly and hold them just so.
When I talk about the literature and art that I like, I use the phrase, “good natured” a lot. Because what’s better than being reminded of the good things in life? Watching the Muppet Show, and being reminded how great it is that friendship exists. Or reading Kurt Vonnegut and stumbling across, “I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think...
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Windows 95
I like to call them red rugrats —the love bruises I never saw fit for k-sounds and I like to call it doo-wop —the ink spots I never scattered fit for poetry
I had this bright red thermos when I was younger and my teeth would chatter with every sip from it I’d take (the water wasn’t cold but I have a sensitive mouth) maybe my memory dimmed the lights but I don’t remember anything...
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“I am alive and you are alive so we must fill the air with our words. I will fill...”
– Dave Eggers, What Is the What
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“The bookstore was a parking lot for used graveyards. Thousands of graveyards...”
– Richard Brautigan, Trout Fishing in America
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Up your nose with a rubber hose!
Anonymous asked: How do you deal with stanky-ass feet?
[Anonymous speaks to me about one of the more fascinating people in my life:]
Some people doodle hearts or cars on their notes but [he] doodles knives and other types of blades.
Up the WAZOO!
And so she listened to Beck’s Loser on repeat while she hammered out a paper on Dante’s Inferno to the light of her lava lamp from under her bed and she laughed and laughed
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an open letter to a friend
Hey there.
This is a thank you love note of sorts.
Anything I write to you will seem trite right now. I’ve been so tired today that most of my thoughts have been reserved for the act of walking to and from places, the act of being present and polite and going through motions.
I’m writing because I feel incapable of stringing words together in pretty ways. I’m writing because...
BEST TUMBLR: Nabokov, + bitches →
“At fifteen I visualized myself as a world-famous author of seventy with a mane of wavy white hair. Today I am practically bald, bitches.”