Everything around me affirmed there was nothing else I could do – yet everything inside me cried that I was not doing enough.
Jason NajumStichwörter: philosophy memoir essay pop-culture cultural-criticism
Unlike prose writing, the strange process of writing with pictures encourages associations and recollections to accumulate literally in front of your eyes; people, places, and events appear out of nowhere. Doors open into rooms remembered from childhood, faces form into dead relatives, and distant loves appear, almost magically, on the page- all deceptively manageable, visceral, the combinations sometimes even revelatory.
Chris WareStichwörter: essay
A writer, or any man, must believe that whatever happens to him is an instrument; everything has been given for an end. This is even stronger in the case of the artist. Everything that happens, including humiliations, embarrassments, misfortunes, all has been given like clay, like material for one’s art. One must accept it. For this reason I speak in a poem of the ancient food of heroes: humiliation, unhappiness, discord. Those things are given to us to transform, so that we may make from the miserable circumstances of our lives things that are eternal, or aspire to be so.
Jorge Luis BorgesIn the beginning, I was put off by the harshness of German. Someone would order a piece of cake, and it sounded as if it were an actual order, like, 'Cut the cake and lie facedown in that ditch between the cobbler and the little girl'.
David SedarisStates vote to take away my marriage rights, and even though I don't want to get married, it tends to hurt my feelings. I guess what bugs me is that it was put to a vote in the first place. If you don't want to marry a homosexual, then don't. But what gives you the right to weigh in on your neighbor's options? It's like voting whether or not redheads should be allowed to celebrate Christmas.
David SedarisStichwörter: humor essay homosexual gay-lesbian
Nakon što sam jednog prosinačkog dana 2001. u zagrebačkoj Nacionalnoj knjižnici prisustvovaoraspečaćenju pisane ostavštine Miroslava Krleže te sudjelovao u dugoj stručnoj raspravi o njemu, krenuo sam, zajedno s dijelom publike i sudionika, u piščev stan, gdje se upravo imao otvoriti Memorijalni prostor Miroslava i Bele Krleže. U dvorištu kuće na Gvozdu, dok sam zajedno s drugima cupkao na temperaturi od oko minus 10C po ledenu betonskom tlu i čekao gradonačelnika, iznenadilo me je mnoštvo meni nepoznatih ljudi o kojima sam od prisutnih kolega čuo da su iz kulturne administracije, državne i gradske, pa sam se u sljedećih pedesetak minuta - koliko nas je gradonačelnik pustio čekati - zapitkivao je li otvorenje moralo biti organizirano baš tako da među okupljenima bude barem dvije trećine kulturno neproduktivnih, a da se profesori, pisci i urednici osjećaju kao stranci.
Kad se gradonačelnik napokon dovezao do nas, nakon prigodne besjede (kojom nas je još desetak minuta zadržao u dvorištu), uveo u stan, uzvanici su ispunili primaću sobu u tolikoj masi da sam se pobojao kako će se deka između Krležina i donjega kata prosjesti, pa sam se instinktivno povukao u kut (gdje bi deka zacijelo bila izdržala i da su oni u sredini sobe propali kat niže). Tu sam se pak suočio s predmetom koji mi je privukao znatiželju te mi olakšao boravak u ambijentu koji je više od svega pobuđivao želju da se iz njega kriomice pobjegne.
Malo je reći da je neobični predmet bio radioaparat. Bila je to RIZ-ova glazbena kutija (kombinacija radioprijamnika, gramofona i magnetofona) u obliku oveće drvene komode s platnenim pokrovom preko ugrađenih zvučnika, s furniranim plohama i oštrim bridovima, tipičnima za ukus i dizajn ranih šezdesetih godina, kad su oble forme omiljene sredinom 20. stoljeća počele ustupati mjesto uglatima. Promrzao, umoran, pa i pomalo prestrašen okolnim žagorom, osamio sam se u kutu te se posvetio RIZ-ovu elektronskom čudovištu, privučen, istina, i Krležinim glasom koji je dopirao iz zvučnika i izgovarao tekst izvorno pročitan 29. ožujka 1966. na skupu o ilirskom pokretu. Očekujući da govornik dođe do znamenite rečenice kako su ilirci "bacili kroz prozor" jezik stare hrvatske književnosti (ona me je potresla već 1966., kad sam je kao gimnazijalac čuo u televizijskom prijenosu proslave), obilazio sam oko aparata i promatrao ga s radoznalošću s kakvom se i inače promatraju zastarjele tehničke naprave. Zapamtio sam ga toliko podrobno da i danas, zatvorivši oči, mogu dočarati njegove površine i bridove.
Zadržao sam se kraj aparata sve dok nije došlo vrijeme za odlazak, a vani se počeo spuštati rani zimski sumrak. Kući sam se vratio već po mraku, umoran, bezvoljan, u jednom od onih raspoloženja kad svijest o protraćenu vremenu preraste u osjećaj obuhvatnijega besmisla, kad nelagodne pojedinosti što ih čovjek pamti u vezi sa sobom i drugima budu prisutnije nego inače, kad se poslovi što ih valja obaviti u skoroj budućnosti učine jalovima ili nesavladavima.
Ali, kakav bio, taj je dan bio ispunjen Krležom, pa sam se odlučio da ga na odgovarajući način i zaključim. Možda u pokušaju da se nadovežem na štogod o čemu se govorilo za okruglim stolom, a možda i nasumice, uzeo sam s police svezak Simfonija te se, nakon nekoliko minuta nesabrana listanja i začitavanja na raznim mjestima, posvetio Panu. I gle, malo-pomalo zvuk stihova uljuljao me i raspoložio, rast pjesničkih slika reanimirao je umrtvljenu svijest, oživjele su i uspomene na nekadašnja čitanja, a ugođaj spjeva nametnuo se kao poetična protuvrijednost prozaičnim zbivanjima koja su me taj dan bila ozlovoljila. Još se, eto, može naletjeti na fine teme, u kojima ima objektivne težine i tragova osobne čitateljske biografije, a u krležijanskom kompleksu - kojem pripadaju i spjev iz 1917. i proslava s kraja 2001. - još se uvijek otkrivaju zanimljivi odnosi i suprotnosti. O svemu tome moglo bi se štogod napisati. Kad-tad.
Stichwörter: essay pan miroslav-krleža simfonije
If I was set an essay on Friday, I’d spend three hours on Saturday morning in the library. Was that normal?
I didn’t know.
What I did know was that I felt less prone to depression and more normal walking through Venice or staring out over the lake in Zurich. At home I wrestled continually with my moods. The black thing inside me gnawed like a rat at my self-esteem and self-confidence. I felt there was a happy person inside me too, who wanted to enjoy life, to be normal, but my feelings of self-loathing and the deep distrust I had towards my father wouldn’t allow that sunny person to come out.
When the black thing had an iron grip on me, I couldn’t even look at my father: Did you do bad things to me when I was little?
Like a line from a song stuck in your brain, the words ran through my head and never once came out of my mouth. Not that I needed to say what was in my mind. I was sure Father could read my thoughts in my moods, in the blank, dead stare of my eyes.
It was hardly surprising that there was always an atmosphere of strain and awkwardness in the house, and the blame was always mine: Alice and her moods, Alice and her anorexia; Alice and her low self-esteem; Alice and her inescapable feelings of loss and emptiness.
Stichwörter: emotion anorexia depression emptiness empty mental-health essay teenager dissociation emotional trauma sexual-abuse survivor abuse child-sexual-abuse incest dissociative-identity-disorder multiple-personality-disorder dissociative
New Rule: You don't have to teach both sides of a debate if one side is a load of crap. President Bush recently suggested that public schools should teach "intelligent design" alongside the theory of evolution, because after all, evolution is "just a theory." Then the president renewed his vow to "drive the terrorists straight over the edge of the earth."
Here's what I don't get: President Bush is a brilliant scientist. He's the man who proved you could mix two parts booze with one part cocaine and still fly a jet fighter. And yet he just can't seem to accept that we descended from apes. It seems pathetic to be so insecure about your biological superiority to a group of feces-flinging, rouge-buttocked monkeys that you have to make up fairy tales like "We came from Adam and Eve," and then cover stories for Adam and Eve, like intelligent design! Yeah, leaving the earth in the hands of two naked teenagers, that's a real intelligent design.
I'm sorry, folks, but it may very well be that life is just a series of random events, and that there is no master plan--but enough about Iraq.
There aren't necessarily two sides to every issue. If there were, the Republicans would have an opposition party. And an opposition party would point out that even though there's a debate in schools and government about this, there is no debate among scientists. Evolution is supported by the entire scientific community. Intelligent design is supported by the guys on line to see The Dukes of Hazzard.
And the reason there is no real debate is that intelligent design isn't real science. It's the equivalent of saying that the Thermos keeps hot things hot and cold things cold because it's a god. It's so willfully ignorant you might as well worship the U.S. mail. "It came again! Praise Jesus!"
Stupidity isn't a form of knowing things. Thunder is high-pressure air meeting low-pressure air--it's not God bowling. "Babies come from storks" is not a competing school of throught in medical school.
We shouldn't teach both. The media shouldn't equate both. If Thomas Jefferson knew we were blurring the line this much between Church and State, he would turn over in his slave.
As for me, I believe in evolution and intelligent design. I think God designed us in his image, but I also think God is a monkey.
Stichwörter: science politics religion evolution george-w-bush separation-of-church-and-state intelligent-design essay creationism creation-myth
New Rule: Now that liberals have taken back the word "liberal," they also have to take back the word "elite." By now you've heard the constant right-wing attacks on the "elite media," and the "liberal elite." Who may or may not be part of the "Washington elite." A subset of the "East Coast elite." Which is overly influenced by the "Hollywood elite." So basically, unless you're a shit-kicker from Kansas, you're with the terrorists. If you played a drinking game where you did a shot every time Rush Limbaugh attacked someone for being "elite," you'd be almost as wasted as Rush Limbaugh.
I don't get it: In other fields--outside of government--elite is a good thing, like an elite fighting force. Tiger Woods is an elite golfer. If I need brain surgery, I'd like an elite doctor. But in politics, elite is bad--the elite aren't down-to-earth and accessible like you and me and President Shit-for-Brains.
Which is fine, except that whenever there's a Bush administration scandal, it always traces back to some incompetent political hack appointment, and you think to yourself, "Where are they getting these screwups from?" Well, now we know: from Pat Robertson. I'm not kidding. Take Monica Goodling, who before she resigned last week because she's smack in the middle of the U.S. attorneys scandal, was the third-ranking official in the Justice Department of the United States. She's thirty-three, and though she never even worked as a prosecutor, was tasked with overseeing the job performance of all ninety-three U.S. attorneys. How do you get to the top that fast? Harvard? Princeton? No, Goodling did her undergraduate work at Messiah College--you know, home of the "Fighting Christies"--and then went on to attend Pat Robertson's law school.
Yes, Pat Robertson, the man who said the presence of gay people at Disney World would cause "earthquakes, tornadoes, and possibly a meteor," has a law school. And what kid wouldn't want to attend? It's three years, and you have to read only one book. U.S. News
Stichwörter: humor politics education liberal george-w-bush essay conservative pat-robertson essays law-school diploma-mills monica-goodling
« erste vorherige
Seite 5 von 5.
Data privacy
Imprint
Contact
Diese Website verwendet Cookies, um Ihnen die bestmögliche Funktionalität bieten zu können.