April 2011
53 posts
Excerpt from Zadie Smith's "Changing My Mind"
On middle-of-the-novel magical thinking:
“If you go outside, everything―I mean, everything―flows freely into your novel. Someone on the bus says something―it’s straight out of your novel. You open the paper―every single story in the paper is directly relevant to your novel. If you are fortunate enough to have someone waiting to publish your novel, this is the point at which you phone...
Excerpt from Karen O's Jane Magazine Dish...
On what happens when you die:
“I do believe I’ll get to see all my “dead homies.”And my idea of heaven is sitting at my best friend’s kitchen table when I was, like, 11 years old, laughing uncontrollably for an hour an a half straight. Like, a silly fit where your stomach hurts. That’s the best feeling in the world. If I could be stuck in that moment for...
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Excerpt from Jem Goulding's "Breathing Space"
I traced my flights on your globe yesterday.
Felt empty when your finger glided around places I didn’t go yet.
Now I’m home.
Yet I feel homesick.
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Excerpt from Jem Goulding's "Window Pain"
Tempted to hide beneath the ledge
And spy out the swings in dark glasses
I hibernated instead
As the pavement sweat outside
In the heat wave
I played records inside
Danced with bare feet and water in my eyes
Drew the blinds on June
And July too
Made the room black
Damp with stagnant rejection
Until the plant on my mantle
With its single blue glower
Turned white and wilted
Excerpt from Kimya Dawson's "Walk Like Thunder"
I gave you a nintendo, you gave yourself a mohawk.
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Excerpt from "Synecdoche, New York"
Whoever has no house now, will never have one. Whoever is alone, will stay alone, will sit, read, write long letters through the evening and wander the boulevards up and down, restlessly while the dry leaves are blowing.
Now. Now. Be here now.
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“We have art in order not to die of life.”- Albert Camus
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C.S. Lewis once said that we have this insatiable... →
gothamriver:
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Excerpt from "One Hour Photo"
And if these pictures have anything important to say to future generations, it’s this: I was here. I existed. I was young, I was happy, and someone cared enough about me in this world to take my picture.
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Six degrees of separation →
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Poetry is a foretaste of truth. It is the vestibule of faith. It is contemporary poets who have turned it into smoke and mirrors.
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Excerpt from Act One of "Angels in America"
You do not live in America. No such place exist. Your clay is the clay of some Litvak shtetl. Your air is the air of the steppes because she carried that old world on her back across the ocean in a boat and she put it down on Grand Concourse Avenue…Or on Flatbush. You can never make that crossing that she made for such great voyages in this world do not anymore exist. But every day of your...
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I have no special talents. I am only passionately curious.
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Watch
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After one look at this planet from space, any visitor would say; I want to see the manager.
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