But while we are looking for the antidote or the medicine to cure us, that is,...– Roberto Bolaño, from “Literature+Illness=Illness” (with thanks to theoreticalliving)
nyrbclassics: Inside everyone there are secret rooms. They’re cluttered and the lights are out. There’s a bed in which someone is lying with his face to the wall. In his head there are more rooms. In one, the venetian blinds shake in the approaching summer storm. Every once in a while an object on the table becomes visible: a broken compass, a pebble the color of midnight, an enlargement of a...
And people then say, ‘Well, what should be done?’ you know. The Tolstoian...– Terence McKenna – Vertigo at History’s Edge (via levantine-chant)
How vulgar, this hankering after immortality, how vain, how false. Composers are...– David Mitchell, “Letters From Zedelghem,” Cloud Atlas
Perhaps it is as simple as this: there are periods in life when this is the most...– Lucy Morris (via wordsfirst)
apoetreflects: The longed-for is tiny, and tenuous as a syllable. In this it resembles us. In this it resembles what we’ve passed on and shucked off. Interminable as black water, Irreparable as dirt, It shadows our going forth and finds us, and then finds us out. —Charles Wright, from “On Heaven Considered as What Will Cover Us...
We work too hard. We try too hard. Don’t try. Don’t work. It’s there. It’s...– Bukowski’s only writing advice? “Don’t try.” A fine addition to our running list of writing advice from literary greats. (via explore-blog)
As many truths as men. Occasionally, I glimpse a truer Truth, hiding in...– David Mitchell. “The Pacific Journal of Adam Ewing,” Cloud Atlas