I’ll tell you why we love post modernism so much. It’s because it’s comforting. Mostly to the people who are tired of giving a shit. It’s a poetic way of saying “Fuck this” and “Fuck that”. It makes everything that was once important seem completely uninteresting, ineffective and inconsequential. It’s nice in a way. A bit nihilistic and depressing but still quite nice.
“An artist is a creature driven by demons. He don’t know why they choose him and he’s usually too busy to wonder why. He is completely amoral in that he will rob, borrow, beg, or steal from anybody and everybody to get the work done. The writer’s only responsibility is to his art. He will be completely ruthless if he is a good one. He has a dream. It anguishes him so much he must get rid of it. He has no peace until then. Everything goes by the board: honor, pride, decency, security, happiness, all, to get the book written. If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the “Ode on a Grecian Urn” is worth any number of old ladies.”—William Faulkner, 1956 Paris Review interview ( Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be artists.)
“I’ve put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant, and that’s the only way of insuring one’s immortality.”—James Joyce, (Ulysses) (via agaiolaaberta)
Cigarettes trigger the sorrow without the tears. Gives me the apathy of old age but awareness of youth, and I miss you grandma. I thought of you in the shower and my knees gave in, and I bet you were looking down at me thinking, "You’re showering to get rid of the smell, aren’t you? To wash away the guilt. You are always carrying around so much guilt." and it’s true, I am. Won’t you come to me in a dream tonight? let me see you one last time.
“We are The Official Manufacturing Company.
We have the necessary documents.
We are thing makers.
We are Mathew Foster, Fritz Mesenbrink, and Jeremy Pelley, although not necessarily in that order.
We are out of jail.
We are on the same team and have already won the game.
We have reviewed our past mistakes and taken notes.
We receive sporadic recognition for our unrecognized genius.
We floss, both literally and metaphorically.
We consider the facts.
After having separately worked for some years for Wieden+Kennedy, Ace Hotel and a handful of other fantastic places, we now know exactly* what we’re doing.”—Mathew, Fritz, and Jeremy of the ACE Hotel, Portland
I really want colleges to think I’m badass, in the sense that I’m open minded, honest and apathetic in a philisophical way. At the same time, I don’t want them to think I’m a menace to society… How do I write a badass essay without making myself seem like a real badass?
“sunlight stars and shines through the stained glass of my mind. source: you if words were feelings, you would understand, But I fear you cannot see my love for you blossomingbloomingbluntly bared. for your strength and laughing smile, and the freckles on your dimples the skin around your eyes so dear to me. I count the colours in your eyes and think that if you knew how much I loved you. if only.. you would not ask me to stay, for you would know that I am yours. and that my soul never leaves yours even if my cage does. and that it rips me apart to be without you for even a second. & I write these words knowing that you will never completely understand.”
it suddenly occurred to me that i promised maha i would write more often and i have hardly written anything, at least nothing that compares to her work.
Do you realize how beautiful this is? Do you realize how beautiful YOU are? I am so envious of your love for Grant. Your heart is enormous. I feel like I am incapable of loving anyone the way you love him.
what have I done? what have I done? what have I done? what have I done? what have I done? what have I done? what have I done? what have I done? what have I done? what have I done? what have I done? what have I done? what have I done? what have I done? what have I done? what have I done? what have I done? what have I done? what have I done?
“A light says why. From all the poor prying. Again we attain a more regal posture—small bird accompanying slips between our whim. Where will we flicker, loose as two feathers from a wren’s back? Gone, do not brood for all the hands that miss you. They hardly hold. Don’t wait, one who thought a dark eye could save you, like night with its black paws curled and gone to sleep. There are only two names to remember, Loss and Pleasure, crossed in this field like no man’s borrowed light. Call the far-sighted foxes to the launching. Call the small deer scattered in the back brush, swift as flit. Contingency has arms and hands and wasted faces. And a body, shrunk and scurvy, built to burn.”—Karen Volkman, “A Light Says Why” (via proustitute)
a figure of beauty and assumptions and potential eradicated from the gut of everything pure and natural smiles that shone through the rocks of the moon happiness that held onto her heart like a leech a million times over phrases of love a love that is too hard hard and mad we saw her crying but she wouldn’t wake up and we wondered if that love would continue we saw her hand grip tightly onto hopes and we saw her eyes moving in the direction of dreams and we wondered if she would wake up and if the roses would fill her gut again but poison gas seemed to be the substance we found when her limbs were torn apart a smell that wreaks a feeling that cuts veins and breaks bones we wondered if she could keep walking and use forks and knives and simply go on but she’s fallen with groans and shrieks of a thousand Greek tragedies of a million sorrows and maybe she won’t wake up because she simply can’t