05 3 / 2014
"If you ever end up dating someone like Odysseus, who says ‘But baby, you’re the only one I really love’ while he or she sleeps around, you better drop it like it’s hot. Ain’t nobody got time for that."
26 2 / 2014
a pack of ladies who don’t care for the heavy amounts of bro culture in the so-called “western literary canon” tear ernest hemingway limb from limb
a farewell to arms
24 2 / 2014
"You loved Peter Venkman … but deep down you knew you were really Dr. Egon Spengler. Murray wanted you to love him; Ramis wanted you to love the scene."
24 2 / 2014
Finally home from school on the Monday after vacation.
Current status: wine, cheez-its, SVU.
21 2 / 2014
"The problem of the cultural influence his books have created is not [John] Green’s fault, but it’s created a frustrating situation for female writers and readers. Book blogger Rhiannon K. Thomas issued a sweeping takedown of the way the NYT bestseller list is stacked against female authors, many of whom write series, which are automatically moved to the “Children’s Series” list, out of the YA category altogether. She also pointed out that when men like Green aren’t writing YA, the media perception of it suddenly changes. Instead of being high literature, it suddenly becomes a shallow, frivolous genre that only silly teenagers and unfulfilled housewives participate in—just like the romance genre sans Sparks."
14 6 / 2013
(I’d advise you to read it slowly, while thinking of someone you love, friend, child, parent, lover…)
Of the terrible doubt of appearances,
Of the uncertainty after all, that we may be deluded,
That may-be reliance and hope are but speculations after all,
That may-be identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable only,
May-be the things I perceive, the animals, plants, men, hills,
shining and flowing waters,
The skies of day and night, colors, densities, forms, may-be these
are (as doubtless they are) only apparitions, and the real
something has yet to be known,
(How often they dart out of themselves as if to confound me and mock me!
How often I think neither I know, nor any man knows, aught of them,)
May-be seeming to me what they are (as doubtless they indeed but seem)
as from my present point of view, and might prove (as of course they
would) nought of what they appear, or nought anyhow, from entirely
changed points of view;
To me these and the like of these are curiously answer’d by my
lovers, my dear friends,
When he whom I love travels with me or sits a long while holding me
by the hand,
When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and reason
hold not, surround us and pervade us,
Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom, I am silent, I
require nothing further,
I cannot answer the question of appearances or that of identity
beyond the grave,
But I walk or sit indifferent, I am satisfied,
He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me.