tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52294891389644070072024-03-05T06:31:49.554-06:00Turning A PhraseNotable quotes I find in books. Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.comBlogger53125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-27324739216479228512024-02-26T12:25:00.000-06:002024-02-26T12:25:11.339-06:00Daydreams, like drugs...<p> <span face="system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I visualized everything [in daydream]... Rose came in as Simon was kissing me and was absolutely livid—or was that in a later imagining? There have been so many that they have gradually merged into each other. I don't think I could bring myself to describe any of them in detail because, though they are wonderful at the time, they give a flat, sick, ashamed feeling to look back on. And they are like a drug, one needs them oftener and oftener and had to make them more and more exciting—until at last one's imagination won't work at all. ”</span></p><p><span face="system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">—Dodie Smith, I Capture the Castle, pg. 230</span></p>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-51686327971149327352024-01-27T15:15:00.007-06:002024-01-27T15:15:57.083-06:00 Winner, best follow-up question, perhaps ever:<p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">LUCE IRIGARAY: ...what a feminine syntax might be is not simple nor easy to state, because in that "syntax" there would no longer be either subject or object, "oneness" would no longer be privileged, there would no longer be proper meanings, proper names, "proper" attributes... instead, that "syntax" would involve nearness, proximity, but in such an extreme form that it would preclude any distinction of identities, any establishment of ownership, thus any form of appropriation.</span></p><p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Q: Can you give some examples of that syntax?</span></p><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">-This Sex Which Is Not One, pg.134</span></div>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-10304044938592809302023-06-02T08:27:00.005-05:002023-06-02T08:27:42.366-05:00Where is that Netflix show?<p> Kierkegaard was a Danish pastor, a great admirer of Hegel. Suddenly he declared war on him, in one of culture's most dramatic moments.<br /></p><p> <span data-offset-key="7hlbo-0-0"><span style="font-family: times;">— A Guide to Philosophy in six hours and fifteen minutes by Witold Gombrowicz, pg. 46</span></span><br /></p>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-45656569823616868432023-04-12T23:21:00.002-05:002023-04-12T23:35:38.760-05:00Forecast: stay inside<p><span style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; font-family: times; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The harsh sobbing air dries the membranes of throats and noses... Clouds of dried blood walk the streets like prophecies.</span></p><div dir="auto" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: times;">-Lawrence Durrell, describing dust storm season in Alexandria, Egypt in Justine</span></div><div dir="auto" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-20695429282716703102023-03-28T23:02:00.004-05:002023-03-28T23:02:54.017-05:00You didn't read that in Freud<p> <span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">“the lapel is a gentleman’s expression of vulva-envy.”</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">-Lisa Robertson, The Bauderline Fractal, pg 1??</span></p>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-78204860868498168242023-03-28T22:21:00.002-05:002023-04-12T23:35:58.032-05:00Hegel 0, The Planets 1<span style="font-family: times;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px;">“</span>I like Hegel, really. I like him even in all his moments of madness that you mentioned. He even tried to deduce the exact number of planets as an attribute of the absolute. That was a big risk, which was immediately rewarded by the discovery of another planet [Uranus].<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px;">”</span><br /></span><p><span style="font-family: times;">-Alain Badiou, in German Philosophy: A Dialogue, pg. 23 </span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-29725467166986457722022-10-04T09:33:00.003-05:002023-03-28T22:22:02.474-05:00Child philosophy...<p> <span class="gvxzyvdx aeinzg81 t7p7dqev gh25dzvf exr7barw b6ax4al1 gem102v4 ncib64c9 mrvwc6qr sx8pxkcf f597kf1v cpcgwwas m2nijcs8 hxfwr5lz k1z55t6l oog5qr5w tes86rjd pbevjfx6 ztn2w49o" dir="auto"></span></p><div class="l7ghb35v kjdc1dyq kmwttqpk gh25dzvf jikcssrz n3t5jt4f"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">“</span>Do you think that animals have a soul?<span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">”</span> Andrée asked. <span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">“</span>If they don't, that's just too unfair! They're just as unhappy as people are. And they don't understand why. It's worse when you don't understand.<span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">”</span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"> </div></div><div class="l7ghb35v kjdc1dyq kmwttqpk gh25dzvf jikcssrz n3t5jt4f"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span data-offset-key="7hlbo-0-0"><span style="font-family: times;">— </span></span>Inseparable, Simone de Beauvoir, pg. 35<br /></div></div><p></p>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-53355177649545661232022-06-11T11:08:00.004-05:002022-06-11T11:08:45.567-05:00Revenge for the smiles<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="dlosg" data-offset-key="7m9h6-0-0" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="7m9h6-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="7m9h6-0-0"><span style="font-family: times;">Sydney's eyes went over Tessa's shoulder, fixing the doorway; Tessa's little smiles at her withered unnoticed.</span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="7m9h6-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="7m9h6-0-0"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></span></div></div><div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="dlosg" data-offset-key="7hlbo-0-0" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="7hlbo-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="7hlbo-0-0"><span style="font-family: times;">"Hasn't Mrs. Kerr come in yet?" said Tessa at last, her penetration innocently revenging the death of the smiles.</span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="7hlbo-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="7hlbo-0-0"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="7hlbo-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="7hlbo-0-0"><span style="font-family: times;">— The Hotel, Elizabeth Bowen, pg. 24</span></span></div></div>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-60739388361984441542022-06-11T11:00:00.002-05:002022-06-11T11:03:05.962-05:00National lunch struggles<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times;">Miss Pym [who had been crying] looked diffidently at the waiter. She had cut herself off from the omelette, so he shrugged his shoulders and brought her up a plate of macaroni from the servants' lunch. This the bruised creature pitifully but with evidence of hunger began to eat; the traditional British struggle with macaroni brought her down sharply from tragedy to farce.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">—The Hotel, Elizabeth Bowen, pg. 26</span></span></div>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-32310093690281430192022-01-29T11:41:00.006-06:002022-01-29T11:44:33.821-06:00Questions while stranded at sea<p> Why are people named after flowers and not fruits? There is nobody named Strawberry [Fresa] or Raspberry [Frambuesa] or Apricot [Albaricoque], which are lovelier than Lily [Liria].</p><p>What is falling in love, anyway? Letting go of disgust, of fear, letting go of everything.</p><p>Flying fish remind me of butterflies in flight.</p><p>What is magical about the sea is that living deep inside it no one can speak.</p><p>—The Promise, by Silvina Ocampo, pg. 32</p>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-88553182397453481812022-01-28T18:21:00.006-06:002022-01-28T18:21:27.167-06:00So cheesy it should be served with crackers...<p> Soon, just as a wind moist with rain loosens, detaches, scatters, rots the most fragrant flowers, the sorrow of sensing the loss of her friend drowned all these voluptuous thoughts beneath a wave of tears. The face of our souls changes as often as the face of the sky. Our poor lives drift at whim between the currents of a voluptuousness where they dare not stay and the harbour of virtue that they don't have the strength to reach.</p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13px;">— The Mysterious Correspondent, Marcel Proust, pg. 51</span></p>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-77213521863138364742020-09-29T19:05:00.004-05:002022-01-28T18:49:30.557-06:00Changing moods of the artist's pet...<p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <span>The
ocelot seems more nervous than on the previous day. </span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">—Alain</span> Bosquet, Conversations with Dali, pg. 11</span></span></span>
</p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span></span>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-24501860952105455932020-06-14T15:19:00.003-05:002022-01-28T18:51:11.065-06:00Voltaire 1, Rousseau 0Voltaire started the rumour that Rousseau suffered from venereal disease.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">— Julian Barnes' footnote in In the Land of Pain by Alphonse Daudet, pg. 39</span>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-4207607215797272962019-08-29T11:09:00.006-05:002022-01-28T18:51:25.954-06:00i.e., he was balding...and on his broad, insolent temples the first white hairs were
visible, announcing the imminent arrival of the barbarians, and the end
of the Empire.<br />
<br /> <span style="background-color: white; font-family: "georgia", serif; font-size: 13px;">—</span> <span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">“</span>Don Juan's Crowning Love-Affair<span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;"></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">”</span> by Jules Barbey D'AurevillyJoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-62488540199074184322019-07-24T11:57:00.003-05:002022-01-28T18:51:39.363-06:00Personal Solar System...For instance, choosing my big leather armchair as the main celestial body, having around it and at a distance of fifty centimeters in east-west position a wooden table (originally, a carpenter's bench and strongly imbued with artisanal emotions); behind the armchair, at a distance of two and a half meters, the skull of a crocodile; to the left of the armchair, among other objects, a pipe inlaid with fake diamonds, and to the right, at a distance of three meters, a green earthenware pitcher; I have a solar system (I won't go into a detailed description of the whole, it would be too long), which I can move at will, knowing beforehand the effects I can generate, though at times the unpredictable is generated, provoked by the rapid trajectory of an unexpected meteor across my established order. The meteor is none other than my cat...<br />
<br /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "georgia", serif; font-size: 13px;">— Letters, Dreams & Other Writings by Remedios Varo, pg. 24</span>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-3716243310645266782019-06-27T10:07:00.004-05:002022-01-28T18:51:54.714-06:00Problem child...I did a quick eenie-meenie with my chin and the words inside my head
so no one would know. I landed on 'sit with the chair between us,' then
knew I didn't want that, so I sat down next to her and asked why she
[was being sent to principal's office.] She said she was there for
talking in Spanish.<br />
I said, that's racist.<br />
June said, <span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">“</span>Spanish. Class.<span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;"></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">”<br /></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "georgia", serif; font-size: 13px;">— The Instructions, by Adam Levin, pg. 19</span><br /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;"></span>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-72523617494859441552019-01-27T22:00:00.001-06:002022-01-28T18:52:07.332-06:00Homunculus Rex<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">“I once had a toy, a little wooden man in a blue coat who was moved by strings. When I played with him, I made him walk and bow, and spoke for him. I practiced until I thought myself very clever. One day I saw my mother holding the two sticks that held his strings, and my little man saluting my youngest sister much more cleverly than I could have made him do it, and laughing with his head thrown back, then mourning with his face in his hands. I never spoke of it to my mother, but I was angry and ashamed.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">— On Blue's Waters by Gene Wolfe, pg. 158</span>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-82467952168768370472019-01-24T13:15:00.002-06:002022-01-29T11:26:20.602-06:00What Ray Monk didn't tell us about Wittgenstein...<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13px;">“</span>When people are about to die, all they want to do is fuck. People in
jails and hospitals, all they want to do is fuck. The helpless, the
impotent, the castrated, all they want to do is fuck. The seriously
injured, the suicidal, the impenitent disciples of Heidegger. Even
Wittgenstein, the greatest philosopher of the twentieth century, all he
wanted to do was fuck. Even the dead, I read somewhere, all they want to
do is fuck. Sad to say and hard to admit, but that's the way it is.<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13px;">”</span><br />
<br /> <span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13px;">— </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13px;">“</span>Illness + Illness = Illness<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13px;">”</span> in The Insufferable Gaucho by Roberto BolañoJoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-25016961537998809562018-07-29T11:46:00.002-05:002022-01-29T11:26:41.636-06:00Don't let Helmholtz catch you crying...<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"> “</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px;">Sound is vibration. Trembling ought to make a noise. How come I can't hear it?</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;">”</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;">—</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px;">We by Yevgeny Zamyatin, pg. 95, Clarence Brown translation</span></span>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-39285440866672992932018-06-04T22:57:00.003-05:002022-01-29T11:27:55.441-06:00Favorite book?<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px;">CHARLOTTE: Have you got a favorite book?</span><br style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px;">HENRY: Finnegans Wake.</span><br style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px;">CHARLOTTE: Have you read it?</span><br style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px;">HENRY: Don't be silly.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13px;">— </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px;">The Real Thing by Tom Stoppard</span></span><br />
<br />Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-50706388227680391752018-04-14T21:58:00.003-05:002022-01-29T11:27:47.816-06:00Man vs. Ocean<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px;">Man says: </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;">“I</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px;"> am more intelligent than the ocean.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;">”</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px;"> That is possible, even more or less true. But the ocean inspires more dread in him than he in the ocean.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 13px;">— </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px;">Les Chants de Maldoror, by the Comte de Lautrémont, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px;">pg. 22</span></span>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-25954682717852578952018-04-14T21:46:00.003-05:002022-01-29T11:27:38.715-06:00Not a fan of California pizza...Praire worked at the Bodhi Dharma Pizza Temple, which a little smugly offered the most wholesome, not to mention the slowest, fast food in the region, a classic example of the California pizza concept at its most misguided. Zoyd was both a certified pizzamaniac and a cheapskate, but not once had he ever hustled Prarie for one nepotistic slice of the Bodhi Dharma product. Its sauce was all but crunchy with fistfuls of herbs only marginally Italian and more appropriate in a cough remedy, the rennnetless cheese reminded customers variously of bottled hollandaise or joint compound, and the options were all vegetables rigorously organic, whose high water content saturated, long before it baked through, a stone-ground twelve-grain crust with the lightness and digestibility of a manhole cover.<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 13px;">— </span>Vineland, by Thomas Pynchon, pg. 45<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></span><br />
<br />Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-49938155408454525762017-09-24T20:23:00.001-05:002022-01-29T11:27:29.757-06:00Preach.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjotQUwJahfdIH_i-avvbK7IlYe88YlK2utpJR38Wm62lHuY0QpnYcek-SeeBgnsziidWURJLx2s5fcFgqSFfS6xwkXswIELiaObMSOadTwPil1HXMzCvAcOruWPWu84QjVF9MFX2pM3hQ/s1600/reading.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="455" data-original-width="360" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjotQUwJahfdIH_i-avvbK7IlYe88YlK2utpJR38Wm62lHuY0QpnYcek-SeeBgnsziidWURJLx2s5fcFgqSFfS6xwkXswIELiaObMSOadTwPil1HXMzCvAcOruWPWu84QjVF9MFX2pM3hQ/s320/reading.jpg" width="253" /></a></div>
– <span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">“</span>Bad Machinery: The Case of the Lonely One<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">”</span> by John Allison, pg. 110Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-65086242383639115152017-09-17T17:32:00.004-05:002022-01-29T11:27:20.771-06:00If power were horses... Stupid things they say: <span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">“</span>If it were in my power, I would never permit this or that.<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">”</span><br />
It's possible, if the power was given to you now, miraculously. But if you'd grown up enclosed in your power, slave of your power, you'd be on the side of the ones who do the beating.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">— </span>Diary of Andrés Fava, by Julio Cortázar, pg. 46Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5229489138964407007.post-28001627027796732582017-09-17T17:28:00.003-05:002022-01-29T11:27:07.637-06:00Critical reading<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px;">One afternoon I was reading The Brothers Karamazov, and idly wondering which brother I'd like to fuck, Dimitri or Ivan, when the phone rang.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px;" /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14px;"><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 13px;">— </span>Conversations with Stalin, by Elanor Antin, pg. 111</span></span>Joshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06635273578022482789noreply@blogger.com0