The purpose of a writer is to keep civilization from destroying itself.
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@courtholc
The purpose of a writer is to keep civilization from destroying itself.
Albert Camus (via wordpainting)
it is so upsetting listening to so many males talk about all of the times they have gone on road trips alone and slept in their cars alone or on the side of the road, or travelled overseas alone and slept on the floor of strangers homes or in parks or at hostels, and they appear to have such freedom in that they are able to be alone in ways that females, unfortunately, cannot. and there is an ignorance surrounding this in that these boys never seem to comprehend just how fortunate they are that strange people and unfamiliar places and the dark of night are not their enemies but rather exciting, promising things.
“Yes, my consuming desire is to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, barroom regulars—to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording—all this is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always supposedly in danger of assault and battery. My consuming interest in men and their lives is often misconstrued as a desire to seduce them, or as an invitation to intimacy. Yes, God, I want to talk to everybody as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night…”
― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
He won't make love to me now Not now I've set the fee He said it's too much in pounds I guess I'm stuck with me
He told me I was so small I told him, "Water me" I promise I can grow tall When making love is free
A wonderful, quick read... But with more feeling in what is beautifully unsaid than what is said.
A brutal story, but at the same time a bit contrived, a bit too fantastical... Even as it was drenched in conventionality. Not my favorite Roth novel. It seemed less raw, less personal than others. It lacked Roth's usual, mesmerizing nakedness, except in very small doses. I'm not sure the protagonist was believable. In any case, it was less believable than his others. This strangeness may have been a result of the half-framed nature of the story-- readers lose the narrator early on, but are they expected to forget that the entire remainder is only in his imagination?
This reassured me of Salinger's ability to write a great character. It is honest to the point of cruelty, pretentious and extravagant but completely self-aware, acknowledging its own flaws in a way that strikes me as incredibly human.
Lovely lovely lovely
An important read to check off the list. Interesting, sure, boundary-pushing. I can't say I got much out of it, or enjoyed it particularly. Maybe a sense of feminism is more important to my appreciation of things than I realize.
This sucked. I had a vague appreciation for The Road, but Huneven was right about McCarthy and his idealization of a world without women. His unrealistic understanding of them, his unwillingness to deal with the reality of them. The sex, the drugs, the greed, the brutality might all be beautiful under someone else's pen. I just really hated this screenplay. It was the closest thing I could find to something decent to read at El Pratt terminal 2.
He really knows how to break my heart. From every perspective. To make me care. There are no flat characters. He is such a lovely storyteller.
She really has it. But not together.
I.
O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has wither’d from the lake, And no birds sing. II.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel’s granary is full, And the harvest’s done. III.
I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too. IV.
I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful—a faery’s child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. V.
I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look’d at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. VI.
I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery’s song. VII.
She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna dew, And sure in language strange she said— “I love thee true.” VIII.
She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept, and sigh’d fill sore, And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four. IX.
And there she lulled me asleep, And there I dream’d—Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream’d On the cold hill’s side. X.
I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!” XI.
I saw their starved lips in the gloam, With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke and found me here, On the cold hill’s side. XII.
And this is why I sojourn here, Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake, And no birds sing.
“According to Andy Hull at a Bad Books concert in Phoenix on October 12, 2012, this song is about Peter the Great (the Russian tsar). Apparently, Peter discovers that his wife Katherine has been cheating on him, so Peter has her lover beheaded. He then has the man’s head placed in a jar to preserve it, and as punishment, Peter forces Katherine to spend some time each day staring at the head in the jar. This song is a love song to Katherine, sung from the points of view of Peter and also Katherine’s lover’s head (in alternating verses). Kinda twisted, but a brilliant song nontheless.”
Originally my post, but this description is crucial.
Top Notch.