The Answer to Life, the Universe and Everything

“I am selfish, private and easily bored. Will this be a problem?”
The French called this time of day “l’heure bleue.” To the English it was “the gloaming.” The very word “gloaming” reverberates, echoes—the gloaming, the glimmer, the glitter, the glisten, the glamour—carrying in its consonants the images of houses shuttering, gardens darkening, grass-lined rivers slipping through the shadows. During the blue nights you think the end of day will never come. As the blue nights draw to a close (and they will, and they do) you experience an actual chill, an apprehension of illness, at the moment you first notice: the blue light is going, the days are already shortening, the summer is gone.

—Joan Didion, Blue Nights (via alighthouseofwords)

(via sea-change)

We die to each other daily. What we know of other people is only our memory of the moments during which we knew them. And they have changed since then. To pretend that they and we are the same is a useful and convenient social convention which must sometimes be broken. We must also remember that at every meeting we are meeting a stranger.

T.S. Eliot, “The Cocktail Party” + (via mythologyofblue)

(via lifeinpoetry)

It’s a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don’t have genuine souls.

—Gillian Flynn, Gone Girl

(Source: words-going-across-the-universe, via rivaldealer)

Ernest Hemingway would have died rather than have syntax. Or semicolons. I use a whole lot of half-assed semicolons; there was one of them just now; that was a semicolon after “semicolons,” and another one after “now.”

And another thing. Ernest Hemingway would have died rather than get old. And he did. He shot himself. A short sentence. Anything rather than a long sentence, a life sentence. Death sentences are short and very, very manly. Life sentences aren’t. They go on and on, all full of syntax and qualifying clauses and confusing references and getting old. And that brings up the real proof of what a mess I have made of being a man.

Ursula K. Le Guin on being a man – the finest, sharpest thing I’ve read in ages 

(via ananthymous)

(Source: explore-blog, via death-crab)

this has been a long day in which i:

  • managed to write a six page paper on Hobbes and the state of nature in one morning (and it turned out to be kinda good even?)
  • went to work/put up posters for my thing tomorrow/was overall productive
  • went to dinner with my friend’s parents and had some really good red wine
  • met a really cute hipster looking musician guy on the street (??) who invited us to his concert/party on friday 
  • filled out an application for a thing in the last 29 minutes before the deadline (with considerable help from friends)
  • chilled on the tisch roof until 1 am and talked about Locke to strangers
Good God, we’re in a lot of trouble if people think that Amy represents every woman. Feminism is not that fragile, I hope. What Amy does is to weaponize female stereotypes. She embodies them to get what she wants and then she detonates them. Men do bad things in films all the time and they’re called anti-heroes. Amy may not be admirable, but neither are the men on ‘The Sopranos.’
We have all left home; we have all tried to make love suffer by turning our backs on it, if only to prove how little we need or deserve its warm, brutalizing complexities.

Hilton Als, slaughtering my emotional barricades effortlessly, as always.

(Source: arabellesicardi, via thymoss)

newyorker:

Part One of an exchange between the Israeli-Palestinian writer Sayed Kashua and his friend the Jewish-Israeli writer and filmmaker Etgar Keret:

“I’m so afraid to stay here; what’s here for me if I can’t write? And what will I do without Hebrew, the only language I can write in? At first, I thought I’d learn a new language, that I’d drop Hebrew for English, and, believe it or not, the first book I bought here was yours. It hurts so much to realize that, in my search for new language, I don’t even consider Arabic, my mother tongue, a worthy option.”

El Uja, Palestine; May, 2009. Photograph by Paolo Pellegrin / Magnum

newyorker:

Part One of an exchange between the Israeli-Palestinian writer Sayed Kashua and his friend the Jewish-Israeli writer and filmmaker Etgar Keret:

“I’m so afraid to stay here; what’s here for me if I can’t write? And what will I do without Hebrew, the only language I can write in? At first, I thought I’d learn a new language, that I’d drop Hebrew for English, and, believe it or not, the first book I bought here was yours. It hurts so much to realize that, in my search for new language, I don’t even consider Arabic, my mother tongue, a worthy option.”

El Uja, Palestine; May, 2009. Photograph by Paolo Pellegrin / Magnum

(Source: newyorker.com)

I said to someone the other day — I don’t know who I was trying to kid — I said, “It’s not that hard being nice to people.” Which makes me sound like such a good guy. Then I thought about it later. And I thought, “No, it’s not that hard to be nice to nice people. It’s really hard to be nice to people who aren’t nice.” That’s work right there.