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« I keep reading books and seeing movies where nobody can fucking say anything except fuck, unless they say shit. I mean they don’t seem to have any adjective to describe fucking except fucking even when they’re fucking fucking. And shit is what they say when they’re fucked. When shit happens, they say shit, or oh shit, or oh shit we’re fucked. The imagination involved is staggering. I mean, literally. »
Ursula K Le Guin (2011) ”Would You Please Fucking Stop?” (read more)
gjmueller: Explaining The Kindle To Dickens Class assignment: “Explain something modern/internet based to someone who lived and died before 1900” Cardiff School of Art & Design student Rachel Walsh decided she would explain the Amazon Kindle to author Charles Dickens and submitted this project.  She designed 40 miniature books and placed them inside of a hardcover book, a Victorian age metaphor for a portable reader.

gjmueller:

Explaining The Kindle To Dickens

Class assignment: “Explain something modern/internet based to someone who lived and died before 1900”

Cardiff School of Art & Design student Rachel Walsh decided she would explain the Amazon Kindle to author Charles Dickens and submitted this project.  She designed 40 miniature books and placed them inside of a hardcover book, a Victorian age metaphor for a portable reader.

(via gjmueller)

“Shakespeare is god”

 

… arrived at kaffe in katmandu: harold bloom, “an uncommon reader” (NYT book review):

… Revise, frenziedly, was the answer Bloom gave. Poets wrote new poems by rewriting old ones, not through calculated thefts of the kind Eliot owned up to, but unconsciously, through stealthy appropriation. “What is Poetic Influence anyway?” Bloom asked. “Can the study of it really be anything more than the wearisome industry of source-hunting, of ­allusion-counting, an industry that will soon touch apocalypse anyway when it passes from scholars to computers?” Thus did Bloom, almost 40 years before the advent of the “digital humanities,” envision with Nostradamus-like exactitude the morbid endgame of critical dissection. …

Channel Light Vessel Automatic

 by Eley Williams first published at 4’33”.

On the walk that spring, I told him I was leaving. He didn’t seem surprised, simply nodded and moved along. We wandered about aimlessly, hungover and far from the city. Before long he lost his way. Wandered into the coarse landscape ahead. I’m not a fan of nature this time of year, he shouted. It’s rough on the skin and hurts the eyes. So hard to contain, like a giant sea of the past. Soon after, I found him standing in front of a large thicket of wood. A battalion of refuse brought in by the tides. Is it a copse? he asked absently. I like that word, it’s empty but soothing, like a tangled place I could enter and never return. -Shelagh Chopra

On the walk that spring, I told him I was leaving. He didn’t seem surprised, simply nodded and moved along.

We wandered about aimlessly, hungover and far from the city.

Before long he lost his way. Wandered into the coarse landscape ahead.

I’m not a fan of nature this time of year, he shouted. It’s rough on the skin and hurts the eyes. So hard to contain, like a giant sea of the past.

Soon after, I found him standing in front of a large thicket of wood. A battalion of refuse brought in by the tides.

Is it a copse? he asked absently. I like that word, it’s empty but soothing, like a tangled place I could enter and never return.

-Shelagh Chopra

berlin, 19 may 2011, saint georges bookshop - here!here!here! organised by shane d anderson: blake butler reads via skype from his novel There Is No Year. also reading henning koch (“love doesn’t work”) and john holten (broken dimanche press). 

when butler read, the audience seemed a little scared, i think.

somehow, this is a suitable image for a lot of modern literature: up its own arse. But in the end, in the end one is alone. We are all of us alone. I mean I’m told these days we have to consider ourselves as being in society… but in the end one knows one is alone, that one lives at the heart of a solitude.  Harold Bloom fastestmanonearth: fuckyeahgif: specialbunny: via img.photobucket.com

somehow, this is a suitable image for a lot of modern literature: up its own arse.

But in the end, in the end one is alone. We are all of us alone. I mean I’m told these days we have to consider ourselves as being in society… but in the end one knows one is alone, that one lives at the heart of a solitude.

 
Harold Bloom


fastestmanonearth:

fuckyeahgif:

specialbunny:

via img.photobucket.com

(Source: baskinyourthoughtcrimes, via beritellingsen)

For Liu Xiaobo

I rewrite Charter 08 in daydreams— its 978 characters are now

3,190 words in English, —- words in French,

—— in German.  Despite what’s happened I’d write it again.

So many of my friend’s interrogated

So many casual hits on the internet

So few cries of outrage

So few cries

I think about the weight of those words—how they are silenced

by the weight of stone,  by the weight of 11 years in a Jinzhou prison cell,

weight of compressed dark stone in angled 8 by 10.

Such unforgiving measurements

Such unexceptional inches

Such utilitarian feet

Such a primitive scheme

I can think of anyplace, my mind is like air, it passes through the stone

of my skull, stone of this prison, stone of humanity’s heart—easily.

I think always of my beloved

My resolve is blood for our beating hearts

My resolve is not the green beast, pride

My resolve turns prison stone to clouds

My resolve undoes China’s blindfold

ATTICUS REVIEW IS OUT - volume 1 issue 1, editor-in-chief = our kaffe member katrina gray: short fiction, flash fiction, poetry, illustrations, and more… Artwork (via Atticus Review): Nick Lopergalo

ATTICUS REVIEW IS OUT - volume 1 issue 1, editor-in-chief = our kaffe member katrina gray: short fiction, flash fiction, poetry, illustrations, and more…

Artwork (via Atticus Review): Nick Lopergalo