My stupidity gave its blessing to succouring nature, on her knees before God.
What I am (my drunken laughter and happiness) is nonetheless at stake, handed over to chance, thrown out into the night, chased away like a dog.
The wind of truth responded like a slap to piety’s extended cheek.
The heart is human to the extent that it rebels (this means: to be a man is ‘not to bow down before the law’).
A poet doesn’t justify — he doesn’t accept — nature completely. True poetry is outside laws. But poetry ultimately accepts poetry.
When to accept poetry changes it into its opposite (it becomes the mediator of an acceptance!) I hold back the leap in which I would exceed the universe, I justify the given world, I content myself with it
Tags: poetry philosophy essay
The emotion of art is impersonal. And the poet cannot reach this impersonality without surrendering himself wholly to the work to be done. And he is not likely to know what is to be done unless he lives in what is not merely the present, but the present moment of the past, unless he is conscious, not of what is dead, but of what is already living.
T.S. EliotTags: talent art poetry expression emotion tradition essay
The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality.
T.S. EliotTags: talent art poetry individual tradition essay
He gazed intently at a sheet of paper, breath suspended, a word on the quivering point of his pen poised and waiting to fall. Monoliths of books and manuscripts rose around him. All were crammed with words; words packed as solidly as bricks in a wall. Armies of them; marching on from one page to the next without pause.
He forced the pen in his tight grip a hairs’-breadth closer to the paper, so that the word stubbornly clinging to it might yield finally; flow onto the vast emptiness. Point and paper met, kissed, froze.
He sat back, breath spilling abruptly out of him, the pen laden with unformed words dangling now over the floor in his lax fingers. How, he wondered incredulously, did all those books and papers come into existence? In what faceted jewel of amber secreted in what invisible compartment of what hidden casket did others find that one word to begin the sentence, that layered itself into a paragraph, that built itself into a page, that went on to the next page, and on, and on? ~The Bards of Bone Plain
The rabbit is one of the few animals that (de facto) enjoys screwing: after copulating it does a backward flip and drums on the ground. If it could light up a fag, it would no doubt do that too, and blow smoke rings into the sky.
Péter ZilahyTags: humour europe essay shorty-story
And it is a great thing to die in your own bed, though it is better still to die in your boots.
George OrwellTags: essay orwell shooting-an-elephant how-the-poor-die
It's the only way anything will change. Because we are both mother and child, cause and effect, villain and victim
Jason NajumTags: humor inspirational memoir culture culture-critique essay pop-culture
After college I got a job and started working. This new career had absolutely nothing to do with my degree.
Jason NajumTags: philosophy memoir culture-critique cultural-decay essay pop-culture
A lifelong movie I already knew the ending to
Jason NajumTags: memoir essay pop-culture cultural-criticism
I avoided one-on-one situations, eye contact, and healthy relationships. Instead I took refuge in drinking too much, cheap sex, and sarcasm.
Jason NajumTags: memoir essay pop-culture cultural-criticism
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