“Of course you can and do go on into the night after the music has ceased, cramming into various bars and pubs wondering if there is any place in the world like this. The streets are then almost as filled as the bars and it’s a familiar a scene as towns and cities a thousand times over. Familiar, yet strange, and warming. But you know deep down that it isn’t really the same, because there is not any place in the world like this.”—A famous man called Luke Slater visited me for the Iceland Air-Waves, and wrote this in a magazine about loud music. (via icelandwantstobeyourfriend)
“One crushed a plant for the end of a sorrow. One derived a forest from pendant ghosts. One was a spell for no more spells. For cutting them down, and letting them go.”—Sarah Gridley, from “Grimoire” (via proustitute)
We live in an amazing world and it’s wasted on the crappiest generation of spoiled idiots that don’t care. Because this is what people are like now, they’ve got their phone they’re like ‘urgh it won’t.’ Give it a second, it’s going to space! Can you give it a second to go to space? Is the speed of it too slow for you?
I was on the plane and there was high speed internet on the plane for you, that’s the newest thing I know that exists. They’re like, open up your laptops and go on the internet, so I’m on youtube and then it breaks down. The guy next to me was like ‘this is bullshit’ like how quickly the world owes him something he knew existed only ten seconds ago. Flying is the worst one, because people come back from flights and act like it was a horror story. They’re like ‘This was the worst day of my life, first of all we didn’t board for twenty minutes. And then we got on the plane and they made us sit there, on the runway for forty minutes.’ Oh really? What happened next? Did you fly through the air incredibly like a bird? Did you partake in the miracle of flight you non contributing zero? You’re flying, it’s amazing. Everybody on every flight should just constantly be like oh my god, this is amazing. You are sitting in a chair, in the sky.
“[O]n the bus she became again a young medical student in Prague, her hair in a single red braid. Sixty years ago she had taken trams everywhere—to cafes; to the apartment of her lover; to her Czech tutor, who became a second lover. In her own room she kept a sweet songbird. At the opera she wept at Smetana.”—Edith Pearlman, “Vaquita” (via leopoldgursky)
I can still see in my mind’s eye the actual positioning of certain words on the pages of the Concise Oxford Dictionary that was my constant companion from the age of eight to 18. Words like prolix, strobile, banausic and pleonasm. Intolerable show-off that I was, I peacocked them at every opportunity, but they mattered to me. This ownership of new words, coupled with the tracing back of their lineage, “etymology” as I learned to call it, gripped me entirely.
“Did you know,” I would ask a bored friend, “that the word ‘sycophant’ originally meant someone who showed figs?” and the bored friend would say “Wow” in that way that people do when what they really mean is “I wish you would fall into a coma forever”.
“[Because we cannot fly we are condemned to do things that do not agree with us.] Because we have no wings we are pushed into struggles and abominations which we did not seek, and then, after that, the year go by, the mountains are leveled, the valleys rise, the rivers are blocked by the sand and the cliffs fall into the sea.”—Birds Without Wings by Louis de Bernières (thanks, 13anachronismal)
“In the midst of all your memories there is one
Faded away beyond recovering;
Neither the yellow moon nor the white sun
Will ever see you drinking from that spring.”—Jorge Luis Borges, from “Limits,” trans. R. G. Barnes and Robert Mezey (via proustitute)
“[Let them be!] We shall sit with lighter bosoms on the hearth, to see the ashes of our fires turn grey and cold.”—Charles Dickens, Hard Times (thanks, aghastandrantings) [redux] (via the-final-sentence)
“It’s like morphine, language is. A fearful habit to form: you become a bore to all who would otherwise cherish you. Of course, there is the chance that you may be hailed as a genius after you are dead long years, but what is that to you? There will still be high endeavor that ends, as always, with kissing in the dark, but where are you? Time? Time? Why worry about something that takes care of itself so well? You were born with the habit of consuming time. Be satisfied with that.”—William Faulkner, Mosquitoes (via wwnorton)