“Xenophon, in “Retreat of the Ten Thousand,” tells us that the Greek army, dying of hunger and thirst after an excursion to Asia marked by repeated failure and humiliation, climbed to the top of a mountain from which the soldiers could see the sea, and they began to dance, forgetting their fatigue and disgust with life. We do not wish to cut ourselves off from life either. There is only one culture: not the culture that feeds on abstraction and geometry, not the culture that condemns, not the culture that justifies [abuse] and killing [and] legitimates the lust for brutal conquest. We know that culture well and want no part of it. The culture we want lives in the trees, on the hillsides, and in men.”
–Albert Camus, Algerian Chronicles
Hozier, from an interview with NPR
“You can see, all this is worth nothing,” the sculptor said, sweeping his arm through the air. “Worth nothing, NoemĂ, I’ve spent months making this shit, you write books, that woman denounces atrocities, we attend congresses and round tables to protest, we almost come to believe that things are changing, and then all you need is two minutes reading to understand the truth again, to—”
“Shh, I’m thinking things like that right now too,” I said with a rage at having to say it. “But if I accepted them it would be like sending them a telegram of support, and, besides, you know very well that tomorrow you’ll get up and in a while you’ll be shaping another sculpture and you’ll know that I’m at my typewriter and you’ll think that we’re many, even though we’re so few, and that difference in strength isn’t and never will be any reason to be silent.”
–Julio Cortázar, “Press Clippings”
“This is the human way, she thought. On the edge of destruction, at the end of all things, we still dance. And hope.”
–Rosamund Hodge, Crimson Bound
Yakov Khalip. Soviet soldiers play a nocturne for their comrades amidst the ruins of battle. Novoshahtinsk, Rostov Oblast, Russia, Soviet Union. Autumn 1942.Â
“They say a song can be a bridge, Ma. But I say it’s also the ground we stand on. And maybe we sing to keep ourselves from falling. Maybe we sing to keep ourselves.”
–Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous: A Novel
“And this is the map of my heart, the landscape
after cruelty which is, of course, a garden, which is
a tenderness, which is a room, a lover saying Hold me
tight, it’s getting cold. We have not touched the stars,
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back
to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes,
not from the absence of violence, but despite
the abundance of it.”
–Richard Siken, “Snow and Dirty Rain”
–sam sax, “Prayer for the Mutilated World”
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