Minimalist Quotation Print, Ryan McArthur
— Clementine von Radics, In Defense of Loving Him (after Megan Falley)
For all the artists out there. xoxo
— Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner (via larmoyante)
— Kurt Vonnegut, Cat’s Cradle (via mynameiscollins)
— Marie Howe, from What The Living Do (via fivegiraffes)
This morning I was thinking about how important it is to choose a direction with your work and then move the fuck on already. Like there are so many possibilities for storytelling in the universe, now more than ever, and you just have to choose a way, just one, and run with it. Instagram it or tweet it or make a video or a podcast or write a book about it and make it in first person or third person or second person or make up your own person if those don’t work. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Just pick one.
Sometimes people think the picking of the direction is the hardest part, but it’s not. The making of the art is the hardest part. The picking is just you procrastinating or questioning your abilities.
I feel like people are always asking me: How do you know? How do you know you’ve chosen the right way? Also people like to ask: How do you know when you’re done?
How the fuck do you know anything, of course.
There are people who revise and rewrite, rewrite and revise. For years, they can do this quite blissfully. Their books will likely gleam more than mine ever could.
But I can’t do it that way because I just want to be done already. I chose a path for this book and I’m following it and I could be entirely wrong but at least I made a decision.
I was telling Stefan and Goodwillie the other night that I don’t even really care about sentences anymore, I just want to get this story written. I just want to tell this truth. A truth that I have made up, but a truth nonetheless.
I also sort of don’t even give a shit about metaphors anymore because everything is a goddamn metaphor anyway. If you let it or want it to be. Everything already exists as a symbol of something else.
Just pick a symbol.
I got a lot of fresh air this morning.
— J.D. Salinger (via starthandingoutstars)
— Friedrich Nietzsche, Untimely Meditations (via ludimagister)
“Beauty, the world seemed to say. And as if to prove it (scientifically) wherever he looked at the houses, at the railings, at the antelopes stretching over the palings, beauty sprang instantly. To watch a leaf quivering in the rush of air was an exquisite joy. Up in the sky swallows swooping, swerving, flinging themselves in and out, round and round, yet always with perfect control as if elastics held them; and the flies rising and falling; and the sun spotting now this leaf, now that, in mockery, dazzling it with soft gold in pure good temper; and now again some chime (it might be a motor horn) tinkling divinely on the grass stalks—all of this, calm and reasonable as it was, made out of ordinary things as it was, was the truth now; beauty, that was the truth now. Beauty was everywhere.”
―Virginia Woolf, “Mrs. Dalloway,” published on this day in 1925
— William Saroyen (via glorifythehour)
— Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast (via larmoyante)
— Walter Bishop (via rosettes)
In a very important sense, civilisation in Freud, at least that aspect of it which he thinks of as a socialised super-ego, is merely a cultural metaphor for the psychic fulfilment in each of us a narcissistically thrilling wish to destroy the world, a wish ‘fulfilled’ in a monstrously ingenious phantasmatic scenario of self-destruction. (xix)