its weird because one of the last times i felt like posting on tumblr was when philip seymour hoffman died. and now, again, robin williams hung himself, and i’ve been some combination of devastated and depressed for the last 24 hours. i don’t think i’ve ever been so somehow personally effected by the death of a celebrity. i thought it was maybe because i met and interacted with him a handful of times—once i made quesadillas with him and some friends late at night in their kitchen, and once, even better, i was driven home by him the first time i’d ever tried acid, while he made funny alien noises and tried to make us laugh because he knew we were stoned. he was one of those people who everyone felt attached too, though, somehow, and his death is so fucking tragic that i cant even really deal with it. this gave me a reason to rewatch dead poets society and good will hunting, which were two of my favorite movies growing up, during some pretty formative years. his performance as john keating is one of the reasons i knew i wanted to read and write poetry. i havent cried as i hard as i did watching those today in a while, and it felt good and important and necessary.
even though everyone and their mom has been writing posts like this about robin’s death, i felt the need to put it somewhere. RIP, robin.
2:06 am • 13 August 2014 • 2 notes
“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, ‘O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?’ Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?”
John Keating (Robin Williams), Dead Poets Society.
So much talent, so many life-changing performances. Thanks for everything Mr. Williams… Rest Well.
4:36 pm • 12 August 2014 • 7 notes
“Carpe diem. Seize the day, boys. Make your lives extraordinary”
— John keating, dead poets society (via redmayne-pontmercy)
4:34 pm • 12 August 2014 • 9 notes
Dear Robin Williams:
O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of…
4:34 pm • 12 August 2014 • 1 note
“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