sheepfilms
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

oozey mess

JVL
taylor price
almost home

祝日 / Permanent Vacation

tannertan36

shark vs the universe
Misplaced Lens Cap
Mike Driver
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
art blog(derogatory)

pixel skylines

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Xuebing Du
tumblr dot com

titsay
trying on a metaphor
KIROKAZE
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@whycantyouletmesleep
“No one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away, until the clock wound up winds down, until the wine she made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone’s life is only the core of their actual existence.”
― Sir Terry Pratchett (28 April 1948 – 12 March 2015), Reaper Man
Brotherhood of The Orb
We Are Getting to the End
by Thomas Hardy
We are getting to the end of visioning The impossible within this universe, Such as that better whiles may follow worse, And that our race may mend by reasoning.
We know that even as larks in cages sing Unthoughtful of deliverance from the curse That holds them lifelong in a latticed hearse, We ply spasmodically our pleasuring.
And that when nations set them to lay waste Their neighbours' heritage by foot and horse, And hack their pleasant plains in festering seams, They may again, -- not warily, or from taste, But tickled mad by some demonic force -- Yes. We are getting to the end of dreams!
it's cold outside pass me the pieter bruegel the elder
yeahg
I'm borrowing him too on account that it's been snowing three days straight
🐐THE GOAT HAS FALLEN 🐐
One detail spotted at the winter solstice celebrations at Stonehenge has been hailed as a 'great omen' for the year ahead
A black cat was spotted atop the stones at Stonehenge during the Winter Solstice celebrations. This is considered be a good omen for the coming year.
Ah yes, we can all see him face!
The Great Blue Heron of Dunbar Road
by Ada Limón
That we might walk out into the woods together, and afterwards make toast in our sock feet, still damp from the fern’s wet grasp, the spiky needles stuck to our legs, that’s all I wanted, the dog in the mix, jam sometimes, but not always. But somehow, I’ve stopped praising you. How the valley when you first see it — the small roads back to your youth — is so painfully pretty at first, then, after a month of black coffee, it’s just another place your bullish brain exists, bothered by itself and how hurtful human life can be. Isn’t that how it is? You wake up some days full of crow and shine, and then someone has put engine coolant in the medicine on another continent and not even crying helps cure the idea of purposeful poison. What kind of woman am I? What kind of man? I’m thinking of the way my stepdad got sober, how he never told us, just stopped drinking and sat for a long time in the low folding chair on the Bermuda grass reading and sometimes soaking up the sun like he was the story’s only subject. When he drove me to school, we decided it would be a good day, if we saw the blue heron in the algae-covered pond next to the road, so that if we didn’t see it, I’d be upset. Then, he began to lie. To tell me he’d seen it when he hadn’t, or to suppose that it had just taken off when we rounded the corner in the gray car that somehow still ran, and I would lie, too, for him. I’d say I saw it. Heard the whoosh of wings over us. That’s the real truth. What we told each other to help us through the day: the great blue heron was there, even when the pond dried up, or froze over; it was there because it had to be. Just now, I felt like I wanted to be alone for a long time, in a folding chair on the lawn with all my private agonies, but then I saw you and the way you’re hunching over your work like a puzzle, and I think even if I fail at everything, I still want to point out the heron like I was taught, still want to slow the car down to see the thing that makes it all better, the invisible gift, what we see when we stare long enough into nothing.
you've heard of death of the author, now get ready for death of the audience: where instead of basing your reaction on a thousand uninformed opinions online, you actually read the text and engage with it
girl help there's people on this post who can't actually read my text
#the way that this is literally how death of the author works lmao
OKAY i'm fucking sick of people who can't read leaving these comments so here we go, we're gonna read Barthes together. hold my hand
Barthes' 1967 essay The Death of the Author (La mort de l'auteur) loosely takes the form of a literary history: he relates the changing attitudes of criticism towards the text and of literature towards criticism down to his day. He is interested in what writing is, and thus, what a book is: "a tissue of signs," which the critic claims to be able to interpret. But Barthes argues that once the necessity of connecting the author to the book is removed, the critic has no work to do: "Once the Author is gone, the claim to 'decipher' a text becomes quite useless." This is a rejection of both the supremacy of the critic and the intentions of the author.
When Barthes says "critic," he doesn't mean "anyone who has encountered the text," however. He differentiates the critic from the "reader":
the reader is the very space in which are inscribed, without any being lost, all the citations a writing consists of; the unity of a text is not in its origin, it is in its destination.
For Barthes, the reader's understanding of the text is supreme because it weaves together the "tissue of signs" into a coherent whole, producing a singular interpretation. He concludes by advocating for the overthrow of the critical establishment in favor of individual interpretation: "to restore to writing its future, we must reverse its myth: the birth of the reader must be ransomed by the death of the Author." In other words, in order for us to allow readers their own experiences, we must stop prioritizing the critic -- not the reader, but the critic -- and instead allow the reader to engage the text.
We're gonna un-Barthes Barthes now, okay? Stay with me. Here's the context:
Barthes was responding to a stifling and rigid environment in which criticism was the sole province of the academic expert. As part of the deconstructionist wave, he wanted to upend the traditional hierarchy that dictated how a text should be understood and what it was for, instead prioritizing language and reaction.
He got his wish. We live in a world of reaction.
Gone is the tyranny of the formal critic; gone even is the formal literary education of the reader. Our "tissue of signs" is no longer the text, but an infinite mirrored hall of reactions to reactions to reactions in which the text diminishes into a vanishing point, as the Author once did on Barthes' literary stage.
We do not need to resist the tyranny of the academy. The academy has been destroyed. Adjunctification, the widespread corporatization of universities, the resulting devaluation of college degrees, the devastation of humanities departments in widespread shutdowns, and now the revocation of billions of dollars of government funding have left the academy on its knees. Public trust in academic expertise has declined so sharply that people on this very hellsite will tell you that if someone has an advanced degree in a specific field, that actually makes them less trustworthy.
And in Ozymandias' place, we have the reader.
The reader consumes a variety of "content" and regurgitates its reactions in a variety of "posts." It transmutes text into more text which further readers wriggle eagerly through, refining what might have had meaning into a rarefied fertilizer of emotion and echo. What it leaves behind becomes the literary history for new strata of reactions, nostalgia, and imitation.
This is the audience: an ouroboros of interpretation, a rat king of readership. It has no end but itself. Ultimately, it needs no text to function. In this world, the truly radical act is to disentangle yourself from the other worms and rebuild the edifice of meaning. This may require you to do such tasks as "read the actual book," but because we no longer have the support -- however oppressive -- of literary criticism to inform our reading, we must also learn how to read, explore the historical context on our own, and recover both the facts and the symbols from which the text is woven.
That is what death of the audience means: not a rejection of the critic in favor of language, but a rejection of endless language and infinite readers in favor of fact, history, and skill.
It's a pun, by the way: "La mort de l'auteur," spoken aloud, recalls Le Morte d'Arthur, a 15th-century collection of Arthurian legend which marked the turn away from the Middle Ages and into a nostalgic Early Modern period which valorized them. The Author becomes the mythic King; as myth, he can be severed from fact and dismissed.
Fact has now itself become the myth.
Fucking read.
This is so fucking embarrassing. This is one of the most embarrassing business quips I have ever seen in my entire vile career.
coat bath
tag yourselves i'm the GREAT ROOM beside the GOURMET KITCHEN
i remade it in the sims 4
V FOR VENDETTA (2005)
I cannot get this poem out of my head. It haunts me. Joyously, it haunts me.
This poem format is my favorite thing and this is the first time I’ve ever seen it’s origin story. I love it. Every time.
THE SACRED TEXTS!
I forgot the context! It’s beautiful!
omfg that is just too adorable
This will always be one of my favorite comics ever. It gives me warm fuzzies~
This is the most perfect.
This kitteh having a little halloween adventure is one of my favourite posts of all time :)
Every fall like clockwork this photo set pops up and we all must reblog it
ITS TIME
Always will reblog.
On a dark night, a little kitten curiously wanders into a pumpkin patch. He soon becomes scared of the pumpkin patch's inhabitants and wishe
Remember to support the real artist - it makes a great gift for any little ones or witchiness-inclined people in your life.
Oh boy it cometh.
I relate...