“But depression wasn’t the word. This was a plunge encompassing sorrow and revulsion far beyond the personal: a sick, drenching nausea at all humanity and human endeavor from the dawn of time. The writhing loathsomeness of the biological order. Old age, sickness, death. No escape for anyone. Even the beautiful ones were like soft fruit about to spoil. And yet somehow people still kept fucking and breeding and popping out new fodder for the grave, producing more and more new beings to suffer like this was some kind of redemptive, or good, or even somehow morally admirable thing: dragging more innocent creatures into the lose-lose game. Squirming babies and plodding, complacent, hormone-drugged moms. Oh, isn’t he cute? Awww. Kids shouting and skidding in the playground with no idea what future Hells await them: boring jobs and ruinous mortgages and bad marriages and hair loss and hip replacements and lonely cups of coffee in an empty house and a colostomy bag at the hospital. Most people seemed satisfied with the thin decorative glaze and the artful stage lighting that sometimes, made the bedrock atrocity of the human predicament look somewhat more mysterious or less abhorrent. People gambled and golfed and planted gardens and traded stocks and had sex and bought new cars and practiced yoga and worked and prayed and redecorated their homes and got worked up over the news and fussed over their children and gossiped about their neighbors and pored over restaurant reviews and founded charitable organizations and supported political candidates and attended the U.S. Open and dined and travelled and distracted themselves with all kinds of gadgets and devices, flooding themselves incessantly with information and texts and communication and entertainment from every direction to try to make themselves forget it: where we were, what we were. But in a strong light there was no good spin you could put on it. It was rotten from top to bottom.”
— donna tartt in the goldfinch
2:52 pm • 11 June 2014
“we are left, each to his secret cult”
— w.h. auden in horae canonicae
5:09 pm • 25 March 2014
an awesome poem about berlin by my friend sandie
View from the trains
I’m no longer impressed with crazy people and neither are you.
Berlin, your name like a stately carousel, a big-top tent.
You’re a toad with a back full of holes and inside each hole is a full egg
and we’re all about to tear out of them. I want to crawl from your back, again,
and flop dripping up the subway steps above the canal whose
ripples turn the round sunlight into a peach pit. We’re not dying yet,
our horizon is full of construction cranes and disco balls.
Every week we slip out of your back and ride the trains,
the take a swig and spit it out trains, the hammered dulcimer trains.
You are poor and you have fire and we all think we are you.
10:20 pm • 10 March 2014 • 1 note
“The books were private, like something you find and hide, some lucky piece that contains the secret of who you are. The books themselves were secret. They altered the room, charged it with meaning. The drabness of his surroundings, his own shabby clothes were explained and transformed by these books. He saw himself as part of something vast and sweeping.”
— don delillo in libra
12:42 pm • 10 March 2014 • 2 notes