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NASA
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if i look back, i am lost
Today's Document
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oozey mess
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izzy's playlists!
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@fixedfinity-blog
…Yet there is no avoiding time, the sea of time, the sea of memory and forgetfulness, the years of promise, gone and unrecoverable, of the land almost allowed to claim its better destiny, only to have that claim jumped by evildoers known all too well, and taken instead and held hostage to the future we must live in now forever. Inherent Vice (2014) dir. Paul Thomas Anderson
My heart was a hysterical unreliable organ.
Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov
What did Caesar really whisper to his protégé as he fell? Et tu, Brute, the official lie, is about what you’d expect to get from them—it says exactly nothing. The moment of assassination is the moment when power and the ignorance of power come together, with Death as validator. When one speaks to the other then it is not to pass the time of day with et-tu-Brutes. What passes is a truth so terrible that history—at best a conspiracy, not always among gentlemen, to defraud—will never admit it. The truth will be repressed or in ages of particular elegance be disguised as something else. What will Rathenau, past the moment, years into a new otherside existence, have to say about the old dispensation? Probably nothing as incredible as what he might have said just as the shock flashed his mortal nerves, as the Angel swooped in…
Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow (via fuckyeahthomaspynchon)
I see here Ishiguro got a new book. This, what is it called? Around here somewhere. Let’s see. The Sleeping Giant. The Sleeping Giant.
What’s that? The Minkman’s telling me – what’s that, Minkman?
O.K., Buried Giant. Minkman says the title is Buried Giant. What’s that? The Buried Giant. With the...
Honest Eds, Toronto 2015
66. Do we have to come back to Neruda as we do to the Cross, on bleeding knees, with punctured lungs and eyes full of tears? 67. When our names no longer mean anything, his will go on shining, his will go on soaring over an imaginary domain called Chilean Literature. 68. By then all poets will live in artistic communities called jails or asylums. 69. Our imaginary home, the home we share.
Roberto Bolaño, "Dance Card"
We never stop reading, although every book comes to an end, just as we never stop living, although death is certain.
Roberto Bolaño, "Dentist"
A poet can endure anything. Which amounts to saying that a human being can endure anything. But that's not true: there are obviously limits to what a human being can endure. A poet, on the other hand can endure anything. We grew up with this conviction. The opening assertion is true, but that way lie ruin, madness and death.
Roberto Bolaño, "Enrique Martin"
He hauls till sundown, resting for long stretches, really out of condition, cape smothering him in a cone of sweat so bad he has to take it off finally. Ducks drift at a wary distance, water dripping off of bright orange beaks. Surface of the canal ripples with evening wind, sunset in his eyes streaking the water red and gold: royal colors. Wrecks poke up out of the water, red lead and rust ripening in this light, bashed gray hullplates, flaking rivets, unlaid cable pointing hysterical strands to all points of the compass, vibrating below any hearing in the breeze. Empty barges drift by, loose and forlorn. A stork flies over, going home, below him suddenly the pallid arch of the Avus overpass ahead. Any farther and Slothrop’s back in the American sector. He angles across the canal, debarking on the opposite bank, and heads south, trying to skirt the Soviet control point the map puts someplace to his right. Massive movement in the dusk: Russian guardsmen, green-capped elite, marching and riding, pokerfaced, in trucks, on horseback. You can feel the impedance in the fading day, the crowding, jittering wire loops, Potsdam warning stay away… stay away….The closer it comes, the denser the field around that cloaked international gathering across the Havel. Bodine’s right: a gnat can’t get in. Slothrop knows it, but just keeps on skulking along, seeking less sensitive axes of suspicion, running zigzags, aimed innocuously south. Invisible. It becomes easier to believe in the longer he can keep going. Sometime back on Midsummer Eve, between midnight and one, fern seed fell in his shoes. He is the invisible youth, the armored changeling. Providence’s little pal. Their preoccupation is with forms of danger the War has taught them-phantoms they may be doomed now, some of them, to carry for the rest of their lives. Fine for Slothrop, though-it’s a set of threats he doesn’t belong to. They are still back in geographical space, drawing deadlines and authorizing personnel, and the only beings who can violate their space are safely caught and paralyzed in comic books. They think. They don’t know about Rocketman here. They keep passing him and he remains alone, blotted to evening by velvet and buckskin-if they do see him his image is shunted immediately out to the boondocks of the brain where it remains in exile with other critters of the night…
Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow (via fuckyeahthomaspynchon)
Imagine a missile one hears approaching only after it explodes. The reversal! A piece of time neatly snipped out … a few feet of film run backwards … the blast of the rocket, fallen faster than sound— then growing out of it the roar of its own fall, catching up to what’s already death and burning … a ghost in the sky… .
Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow (via talesofpassingtime)
He asked me when I planned to come back. Always, I said.”
from The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolaño (via thetargetbird)
Roberto Bolaño on writing short stories. (via)
John Williams, Stoner
Everything collapses in pain. All eloquence springs from pain.
Roberto Bolaño, from 2666 (via violentwavesofemotion)
You go from dream to dream inside me. You have passage to my last shabby corner, and there, among the debris, you’ve found life. I’m no longer sure which of all the words, images, dreams or ghosts are ‘yours’ and which are ‘mine.’ It’s past sorting out.
Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow (via solidpiecesofsilence)
The edge of evening … the long curve of people all wishing on the first star…. Always remember those men and women along the thousands of miles of land and sea. The true moment of shadow is the moment in which you see the point of light in the sky. The single point, and the Shadow that has just gathered you in its sweep …” Always remember. The first star hangs between his feet. Now —
Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow (via fuckyeahthomaspynchon)
Charlie really has this, like, obsessive death wish! Yes! he, he wants to be caught, processed, put in a can, not just any can, you dig, it has to be StarKist! suicidal brand loyalty, man, deep parable of consumer capitalism, they won’t be happy with anything less than drift-netting us all, chopping us up and stacking us on the shelves of Supermarket Amerika, and subconsciously the horrible thing is, is we want them to do it…
Thomas Pynchon, Inherent Vice (via fuckyeahthomaspynchon)
