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« However, this “idea of complexity” can become a convention, a duty to be done for the comfort of the reader as much as anything, and it is curiously bracing to read a writer of clear intelligence and depth who has no interest in such conventions or comfort. » Mary Gaitskill on Natsuo Kirino this book is much discussed. i haven’t read it yet but ann bogle recommended this review and i found it very stimulating indeed.

« However, this “idea of complexity” can become a convention, a duty to be done for the comfort of the reader as much as anything, and it is curiously bracing to read a writer of clear intelligence and depth who has no interest in such conventions or comfort. »

Mary Gaitskill on Natsuo Kirino

this book is much discussed. i haven’t read it yet but ann bogle recommended this review and i found it very stimulating indeed.

an american version of “scenes of a marriage” for young guns. without the swedish sensibility, of course. and without the beard. altogether different actually but that’s what came up for me. uncompromising, unconditional, great drawings.

(i would have let riley michael parker post this but i think last i saw him he said the internet ate his blog and it looks as if it has eaten him, too. he’s one of those young guns who set their parents’ house on fire.)

“Everyone has talent. What is rare is the courage to follow the talent to the dark place where it leads.” (Erica Jong, American writer and feminist, 1942) yournewtrenchcoat-: nodlove:theonlymagicleftisart: (Mr. Frivolous) _

“Everyone has talent. What is rare is the courage to follow the talent to the dark place where it leads.”

(Erica Jong, American writer and feminist, 1942)

yournewtrenchcoat-:

nodlove:theonlymagicleftisart: (Mr. Frivolous)

_

(Source: theonlymagicleftisart, via whoaremyrealfriends)

  • TrackName: thesonofaman

sheldoncompton:

Here is the writer xTx reading my short story “The Son of a Man.” 

She sent this to me as a gift before it was published and I asked her if it would be acceptable for me to share it with others. 

She graciously agreed.  Thanks to you, xTx.

— Sheldon Lee Compton

Books to remember: Hebdomeros by Giorgio de Chirico (1928): The noises died down; the wind held its breath, the curtains which had billowed out romantically in the open windows sank back again like flags when the wind drops. Men in shirtsleeves who had been playing billiards suddenly stopped playing as though they had become immensely weary, weary of their past life and of their present life and of the years that still awaited them, with their long procession of hours, sad or sunny, or simply neutral, neither sad nor sunny, just hours!

Books to remember: Hebdomeros by Giorgio de Chirico (1928):

The noises died down; the wind held its breath, the curtains which had billowed out romantically in the open windows sank back again like flags when the wind drops. Men in shirtsleeves who had been playing billiards suddenly stopped playing as though they had become immensely weary, weary of their past life and of their present life and of the years that still awaited them, with their long procession of hours, sad or sunny, or simply neutral, neither sad nor sunny, just hours!

Admit Nothing

Escalator in the Metro, 2 A.M. Is it really a quarter mile long, this stairway to heaven?  She confessed as much, and her fear of it. She tows a big red suitcase, lanky line-jumping bitch from the crush of the entrance. Here, at the end of the line, there’s none but the two of us traveling in the half-lit fluorescence.  She smiles up at me, pale and strained - gratefully, uncertainly - as my bulk blocks her view of ascension into the abyss. Foot to her shoulder and push. Cartwheeling game of leapfrog, human and baggage, down an up-moving staircase. Finally, her neck rests at an odd angle — she only moves when the electric stairway rolls her over again. Bump, bump, bump. Last look, copper curls waving on the slotted steel.

 

The ticket out: “ADMIT NOTHING.”

                                                               ~       •       ~

(Source: catherinedavis)

inside. inside. the pain stretches out and attacks. it grips tight to movement. black circles spin. black circles emit. thoughts fuzz and disappear. candles flicker till they are gone. incessantly ears ring. rock back and forth. it calls. it wants release. i was. i no longer am. i was. i no longer am. i was. i no longer am. cloaked in black mist. no more fuel. no more oxygen. black circles spin. the pain stretches out. no release. no. i can’t love myself. i see rot. i fear decay. it grips tight to movement. shadows dance piercing thought. hurt. i hurt. i don’t hear. i don’t recognise i. alone. lonely. inside. inside.   truth : Andy Harrod behind truth

inside. inside. the pain stretches out and attacks. it grips tight to movement. black circles spin. black circles emit. thoughts fuzz and disappear. candles flicker till they are gone. incessantly ears ring. rock back and forth. it calls. it wants release. i was. i no longer am. i was. i no longer am. i was. i no longer am. cloaked in black mist. no more fuel. no more oxygen. black circles spin. the pain stretches out. no release. no. i can’t love myself. i see rot. i fear decay. it grips tight to movement. shadows dance piercing thought. hurt. i hurt. i don’t hear. i don’t recognise i. alone. lonely. inside. inside.  

truth : Andy Harrod

behind truth

this flesh buttersweet soft as an inner thigh, a gasping exotic thing gaping for love, dying for my tongue’s tip there on the blood stained lip

this flesh
buttersweet
soft as an
inner thigh,
a gasping
exotic thing
gaping
for love,
dying
for my
tongue’s
tip
there
on the
blood
stained
lip

Interviews with E-Publishing Authors

 

« Writing and selling it stop but don’t get rich stop all authors poor first then rich stop me no exception »

Hemingway - telegram to James Gable, 1921.

Breeding And Writing: Big-Bottomed Girls And Other Playthings by Tracy Lucas on PANK Blog