Oct
22nd
Thu
22nd
Oct
15th
Thu
15th
So if I asked you about art, you’d probably give me the skinny on every art book ever written. Michelangelo, you know a lot about him. Life’s work, political aspirations, him and the pope, sexual orientations, the whole works, right? But I’ll bet you can’t tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You’ve never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling; seen that. If I ask you about women, you’d probably give me a syllabus about your personal favorites. You may have even been laid a few times. But you can’t tell me what it feels like to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy. You’re a tough kid. And I’d ask you about war, you’d probably throw Shakespeare at me, right, “once more unto the breach dear friends.” But you’ve never been near one. You’ve never held your best friend’s head in your lap, watch him gasp his last breath looking to you for help. I’d ask you about love, you’d probably quote me a sonnet. But you’ve never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone that could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you. Who could rescue you from the depths of hell. And you wouldn’t know what it’s like to be her angel, to have that love for her, be there forever, through anything, through cancer. And you wouldn’t know about sleeping sitting up in the hospital room for two months, holding her hand, because the doctors could see in your eyes, that the terms “visiting hours” don’t apply to you. You don’t know about real loss, ‘cause it only occurs when you’ve loved something more than you love yourself. And I doubt you’ve ever dared to love anybody that much. And look at you… I don’t see an intelligent, confident man… I see a cocky, scared shitless kid. But you’re a genius Will. No one denies that. No one could possibly understand the depths of you. But you presume to know everything about me because You think I know the first thing about how hard your life has been, how you feel, who you are, because I read Oliver Twist? Does that encapsulate you? Personally… I don’t give a shit about all that, because you know what, I can’t learn anything from you, I can’t read in some fuckin’ book. Unless you want to talk about you, who you are. Then I’m fascinated. I’m in. But you don’t want to do that do you sport? You’re terrified of what you might say. Your move, chief.
Oct
12th
Mon
12th
If we believe in the idea of democracy that means we believe in the worth and dignity of the inidividual - and that means everybody. It means acknowledging that everybody has an inner life that’s as rich and active as yours and mine. And novel writing is essentially telling the stories of of people. People with inner lives. So, in some sense, one can say that writing is a political act. An earnest reader of fiction will feel closer to his fellow human beings because of the experience he has of living inside other people.
— Paul Auster (via flourhoneymilk)
Sep
29th
Tue
29th
It’s the people who hug you and never want to let go, the people who you haven’t seen for months, but nothing has changed at all, the people who give to you more than you give to them, the people that truly understand who you are, the people who you cry about, the people who you live for, the people in your photographs that have light genuinely shining through their eyes and their smile, the people that take your breath away.
— (via staree) (via lovelybluepony)
