Leila Sales, This Song Will Save Your Life
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@isiaba
Leila Sales, This Song Will Save Your Life
“There is no need for words to fester in our minds. They germinate in the open mouth of the barefoot child in the middle of restive crowds. They wither in ivory towers and in college classrooms. Throw away abstractions and the academic learning, the rules, the map and compass. Feel your way without blinders. To touch more people, the personal realities and the social must be evoked–not through rhetoric, but through blood and pus and sweat. Write with your eyes like painters, with your ears like musicians, with your feet like dancers. you are the truthsayer with quill and torch. Write with your tongues of fire. Don’t let the pen banish you from yourself. Don’t let the ink coagulate in your pens. Don’t let the censor snuff out the spark, nor the gags muffle your voice. Put your shit on the paper.”
— Gloria Anzaldúa, “Speaking in Tongues: A Letter to Third World Women Writers”
Bookclub.
Hey, I’m Femke.
I’m the owner of the bubble tea bookclub. A bookclub about young adult literature on WhatsApp. We read 1 book together each 2 months. Beside that we discuss books, review books and recommend books. So everything that has to do with books.
Do you have time for a bookclub, and are you enthusiastic about joining? Message me with your name and phone number so that I can add you.
You can also find us on Instagram: @thebubbleteabookclub
Love, Femke.
(feel free to share this post).
“Perhaps I wish to say: look behind you. You are not alone. Don’t permit yourself to be ambushed. Watch out for snakes. Watch out for the Zeitgeist—it is not always your friend. Keats was not killed by a bad review. Get back on the horse that threw you. Advice for the innocent pilgrim, worthy enough, no doubt, but no doubt useless: dangers multiply by the hour, you never step into the same river twice, the vast empty spaces of the blank page appall, and everyone walks into the maze blindfolded.”
— Margaret Atwood (via a-witches-brew)
“The thing I’m most afraid of is me. Of not knowing what I’m going to do. Of not knowing what I’m doing right now.”
— Haruki Murakami (via quotemadness)
“Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal.”
— Albert Camus (via quotemadness)
I told Miyazaki I love the “gratuitous motion” in his films; instead of every movement being dictated by the story, sometimes people will just sit for a moment, or they will sigh, or look in a running stream, or do something extra, not to advance the story but only to give the sense of time and place and who they are. “We have a word for that in Japanese,” he said. “It’s called ma. Emptiness. It’s there intentionally.” Is that like the “pillow words” that separate phrases in Japanese poetry? “I don’t think it’s like the pillow word.” He clapped his hands three or four times. “The time in between my clapping is ma. If you just have non-stop action with no breathing space at all, it’s just busyness. But if you take a moment, then the tension building in the film can grow into a wider dimension. If you just have constant tension at 80 degrees all the time you just get numb.
Rogert Ebert, on Hayao Miyazaki (via figureight)
Some experiences just need to be left in peace, they’re fragile as a cobweb and cannot tolerate either thoughts or words. You just have to be satisfied with letting them flicker in a corner of your awareness now and then.
Majgull Axelsson, from April Witch (via violentwavesofemotion)
Sometimes we get sad about things and we don’t like to tell other people that we are sad about them. We like to keep it a secret. Or sometimes, we are sad but we really don’t know why we are sad, so we say we aren’t sad but we really are.
Mark Haddon, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time (via odaro)
SUTTLECLUB.COM.NG IS TEMPORARILY DOWN :(
The music was pulsing. The speakers were in every corner of the VIP room; and the club was now so full that they had locked the cage-like gate that separated VIP from everywhere else. There were bodies pressed onto the bars. I stared through the iron rods at people twisting and shaking and fairly soon the whole room began to wobble. I realized that the man sitting next to me had been whispering in my ear and I turned to him to scream ‘WHAT?’. The music was too loud. That simple head turn threw everything off balance even more and something flipped in my belly. Ijeoma was suddenly in my line of sight. I reached forward and grabbed her hand. “IJ we need to leave. Right now.” I was staring into her eyes as I spoke. Mostly because I couldn’t afford to look at anything else in case the whole room turned over and stood on its head but also because I wanted her to know I was dead serious. She grabbed my hand back and pulled me out of my seat. The ultimate friend. We stumbled out of the club together and everything spun around me until I found myself on a toilet seat.
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Read more of this story on SUTTLECLUB.
I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,
And woke to find it true;
I wasn't born for an age like this;
Was Smith? Was Jones? Were you?
- George Orwell, 1935.
(via isiaba)
Mansfield Park, Jane Austen
Giveaway Contest: We’re giving away fifteen vintage paperback classics by Virginia Woolf, James Baldwin, Sylvia Plath, Ray Bradbury, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and others! Won’t this collection look lovely on your shelf? :D To win these classics, you must: 1) be following macrolit on Tumblr (yes, we will check. :P), and 2) reblog this post. We will choose a random winner on February 25, at which time we’ll start a new giveaway. And yes, we’ll ship to any country. Easy, right? Good luck!
Here’s our brand new giveaway!
Sometimes writing is easy. It’s keeping your personal life private that’s hard.
Simone Isiaba
@isiaba
i think writers forget sometimes that stories can be written without any plot. stories without characters. or stories without structure. without meaning. dialogue. setting. genre. screw writing advice. be the most avant-garde you that you can be. publish blank pages
And no matter what I was doing, another me sat in my belly, absolutely cold with terror over the question of my life.
James Baldwin, from Giovanni’s Room (Vintage, 2013; first published 1956)