"I would like to be able to gently drift in and out of existence when I wanted to."
"He [or she] who has a why to live for can bear almost any how."
"The left tends to be evasive about the numbing violence intrinsic to revolutionary war, and feminism is often particularly fastidious in this respect, even reverting to absurd mystical and Ghandian ideologies…A REVOLUTIONARY WAR AGAINST MODERN METROPOLITAN STATE CAN ONLY BE FOUGHT IN HELL."
"You cannot love a thing without wanting to fight for it. You cannot fight without something to fight for."
"Dear March — Come in —
How glad I am —
I hoped for you before —
Put down your Hat —
You must have walked —
How out of Breath you are —
Dear March, how are you, and the Rest —
Did you leave Nature well —
Oh March, Come right up the stairs with me —
I have so much to tell —"
"Remembering is only a new form of suffering"
"The only hope, or else despair
Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre —
To be redeemed from fire by fire."
"If you hate a person, you hate something in him that is part of yourself. What isn’t part of ourselves doesn’t disturb us."
"Good is better than perfect
Scrub till your fingers are bleeding
And I’m crying for things that
I tell others to do without crying"
— Regina Spektor, “Man of a Thousand Faces” (via larmoyante
"Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age
To set a crown upon your lifetime’s effort.
First, the cold friction of expiring sense
Without enchantment, offering no promise
But bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit
As body and soul begin to fall asunder.
Second, the conscious impotence of rage
At human folly, and the laceration
Of laughter at what ceases to amuse.
And last, the rending pain of re-enactment
Of all that you have done, and been; the shame
Of motives late revealed, and the awareness
Of things ill done and done to others’ harm
Which once you took for exercise of virtue.
Then fools’ approval stings, and honor stains."
"Worship power, you will end up feeling weak and afraid, and you will need ever-more power over others to numb you to your own fear. Worship your intellect, being seen as smart, you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. Look, the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they’re evil or sinful, it is that they are unconscious, they are default settings, they’re the kind of worship you just gradually slip into day after day, getting more and more selective about what you see and how you measure value without ever being fully aware that that’s what you’re doing. And the so-called ‘real world’ will not discourage you from operating on your default settings, because the so-called real world of men, and money, and power comes merrily along on the fuel of fear and anger and frustration and craving and the worship of self. Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom—the freedom all be lords of our own tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the center of all creation."
"And it kills me, it just kills me, that maybe the best you can ever do is cause less harm. But there you have it."
"…the last few years of the postmodern era have seemed a bit like the way you feel when you’re in high school and your parents go on a trip, and you throw a party…. For a while it’s great, free and freeing, parental authority gone and overthrown…. but the sense I get of my generation of writers and intellectuals or whatever is that it’s 3:00 a.m. and the couch has several burn-holes and somebody’s thrown up in the umbrella stand and we’re wishing the revel would end. The postmodern founders’ patricidal work was great, but patricide produces orphans, and no amount of revelry can make up for the fact that writers my age have been literary orphans throughout our formative years. We’re kind of wishing some parents would come back. And of course we’re uneasy about the fact that we wish they’d come back…. Is there something about authorities and limits we actually need? And then the uneasiest feeling of all, as we start gradually realizing that parents in fact aren’t ever coming back — which means we’re going to have to be the parents."
"Blame it on fate, on beach memories—
pebble put in the pocket or shell
fragments; any memento carries
us as much as we it. Time capsule
contains every evening’s interval.
The ocean observes its own puddle."
— Bill Knott,
closing lines to “Fragments from the Beach,” from Maverick Magazine
(No. 11, 2005)
(Source: mitochondria, via apoetreflects)