Jacque Attacque

Jan 21

“You remember too much,
my mother said to me recently.

Why hold onto all that? And I said,
Where can I put it down?”
Anne Carson (via wordsfirst)

(via wordsfirst)


Dec 5
“You never knew exactly how much space you occupied in people’s lives.” F. Scott Fitzgerald (via feelfearless)

(via mathsdebater)


Dec 3
“Nobody can save you but
Yourself
And you’re worth saving.
It’s a war not easily won
But if anything is worth winning then
This is it.”
Charles Bukowski (via loveyourchaos)

(via loveyourchaos)



creatingaquietmind:

Peter Cameron, Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You

creatingaquietmind:

Peter Cameron, Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You

(via booklover)


theparisreview:

THESE ARE THE THINGS WE THINK ARE BEAUTIFUL:Flames and money with colors. Good thick paperrubbing between the fingertips like oil.  Red bell pepperpregnant with smaller, greener, half-grown versionsof itself. Red hair overdyed with henna.Early comic artists’s ideas of Martians  —green, with antennae.Clear glass bricks that are somehow still opaque.Natural hexagons—like honeycombs,benzene rings, the fugitive snowflake.  Epic poems’careful attention to dealing out the glories—whose sword pierced whose brainpan? Who shot the arrow?Lingering doubts, left at the end of stories,  whether the heromay or may not be crazy. Family quarrelswhose source no one remembers. All misplacedloyalties, traitors, all who make their morals  matters of taste.Headlines naming a new computer virus:Dante. Antrhax. Sunday the Fifteenth. Crack.Cheeses, spices, colors, all that is various.  Anything matte black.—Craig Arnold, “Manifesto”Photography Credit Jesse Chehak

theparisreview:

THESE ARE THE THINGS WE THINK ARE BEAUTIFUL:
Flames and money with colors. Good thick paper
rubbing between the fingertips like oil.
  Red bell pepper

pregnant with smaller, greener, half-grown versions
of itself. Red hair overdyed with henna.
Early comic artists’s ideas of Martians
  —green, with antennae.

Clear glass bricks that are somehow still opaque.
Natural hexagons—like honeycombs,
benzene rings, the fugitive snowflake.
  Epic poems’

careful attention to dealing out the glories
—whose sword pierced whose brainpan? Who shot the arrow?
Lingering doubts, left at the end of stories,
  whether the hero

may or may not be crazy. Family quarrels
whose source no one remembers. All misplaced
loyalties, traitors, all who make their morals
  matters of taste.

Headlines naming a new computer virus:
Dante. Antrhax. Sunday the Fifteenth. Crack.
Cheeses, spices, colors, all that is various.
  Anything matte black.

Craig Arnold, “Manifesto”
Photography Credit Jesse Chehak


Aug 14

Jun 25
“All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.” George Orwell, on writing. (via theatlantic)

(via theatlantic)


“Dread of space and dread of the crowd. At the foundation of both is the fear of loss.” Marina Tsvetaeva, Earthly Signs: Moscow Diaries, 1917-22, trans. Jamey Gambrell (via proustitute)

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