Put the gun to my head and paint walls with my brains. ― Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club. . (W. W. Norton October 17, 2005) Advertisements
[O]nly death can get us out of this and maybe not even death. Maybe it’s too late; we’ll carry this deterioration with us to the next life. — Philip K. Dick, Dr. Bloodmoney. (Vintage; Reprint edition, May 14, 2002) Originally published 1965.
And Ut Pictura Poesis Is Her Name You can’t say it that way any more. Bothered about beauty you have to Come out into the open, into a clearing, And rest. Certainly whatever funny happens to you Is OK. To demand more than this would be strange Of you, you who have so many lovers,… Continue reading John Ashbery
If there is one question I dread, to which I have never been able to invent a satisfactory reply, it is the question what am I doing. ― Samuel Beckett, Molloy. (Grove Press, January 12, 1994) Originally published 1951.
[S]o when it comes Time to depart our good-byes will read automatically true or false According to what has gone before. And that loneliness will accompany us On the far side of parting, when what we dream, we read. —John Ashbery, from “Wet Are the Boards,” April Galleons: Poems (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 1999)
I always imagine them at nightfall, in the dusk of a slum or a vacant lot, in that long, quiet moment when things are gradually left alone, with their backs to the sunset, and when colours are like memories or premonitions of other colours. We must not be too prodigal with our angels; they are… Continue reading Jorge Luis Borges
Most writers waste people’s time with too many words. I’m trying to reduce everything down to the minimum. My last work will be a blank piece of paper. — Samuel Beckett