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Should she stop and get something to eat? Here were people at an Internet café, humped over keyboards and dishes of fried food, typing with one hand while they gobbled with the other, writing emails and surfing chat rooms while televisions blared from every corner. How interesting it was to be a person who, while considering eating at the airport Internet café, could remember riding a mule on a mud road to get the bus to school. You used to sit in the Greyhound terminal, waiting for the bus, and except for the roar and wheeze of the buses, it was quiet and you had to really look at the people across from you. you had to feel them, and if it was hot, you had to smell them. There might be children chasing each other up and down, or men playing chess on a cardboard table set up on the sidewalk outside, or a woman holding a beautiful baby. But there was nothing to make you think you were anyplace but the Greyhound waiting room. Now people waited to travel crouched over screens, hopping from one outrageous place to the next, and typing opinionated, angry messages—about the war in Iraq or a murder in Minneapolis or parents who were keeping their daughter alive even though she’d been in a coma for ten years—to strangers they would never see, let alone smell. Above their heads actors silently sang and danced and fought; scenes of war and murder flashing like lightning, and heads of state moved their lips as chunks of words streamed over them. You could sit there on the physical plane, absently loading piles of fried food into your mouth while your mind disappeared through a rented computer screen and went somewhere positively astral.
– "Little Boy" by Mary Gaitskill from her collection Don’t Cry. (via imjustlikeyouifyouwereamazing)

Excerpt from The People I Live With Now

And sometimes when you feel you are doing and saying great wonderful true things you have a moment splash up where you think of all the world and how many people falling in love with you because of it. But you are already in love so that feeling must be something else, you swoon to imagine sharing a thought with others also — alive and listening.

winesburgohio:

What amazes me, continually, about this old poet is that maybe I don’t like her stories, but they are always aggressively about things. Other things. They start in a place like her car or her sister is getting married, and they don’t wind up anywhere in particular (usually the same place, but with different punctuation), except all throughout it she’s hinting viciously at you that this is really about art and humanity and civil rights. You know, it’s not the car breaking down, it’s the fundamental difference in her body as she ages, and not just because she, as an individual, gets older, but because we’re all going to die alone and quickly. The level of urgency is astounding. Our fate is universal. At the same time, everything is all the same things. It is champion banality. 
(I think she has been in love a lot. She has a good sense of balance.  “Can I make love to you?” is not something you ask for, it’s just something you take. )
Ginsburg loved her as a “kid” — “Allen was to my own female self a generous friend, though I admit he liked the fact that when I was young I looked like a boy.” Also, her on the cover of Cool For You is strangely unforgettable.

winesburgohio:

What amazes me, continually, about this old poet is that maybe I don’t like her stories, but they are always aggressively about things. Other things. They start in a place like her car or her sister is getting married, and they don’t wind up anywhere in particular (usually the same place, but with different punctuation), except all throughout it she’s hinting viciously at you that this is really about art and humanity and civil rights. You know, it’s not the car breaking down, it’s the fundamental difference in her body as she ages, and not just because she, as an individual, gets older, but because we’re all going to die alone and quickly. The level of urgency is astounding. Our fate is universal. At the same time, everything is all the same things. It is champion banality. 

(I think she has been in love a lot. She has a good sense of balance.  “Can I make love to you?” is not something you ask for, it’s just something you take. )

Ginsburg loved her as a “kid” — “Allen was to my own female self a generous friend, though I admit he liked the fact that when I was young I looked like a boy.” Also, her on the cover of Cool For You is strangely unforgettable.

Sighing over a fantasy drains energy from reality. What happens in our heads isn’t private; it is unspoken, that’s all. We all know what it’s like to live in the stifling atmosphere of what is unsaid.

Love is hard work. We don’t hear enough about that. Falling in love is the easy part – it’s why affairs are so exciting and attractive – none of the toil, all of the fun. I used to have a lot of affairs until I realised it was like growing cress on a flannel – instant results, no roots. Adam Phillips has written eloquently, in Missing Out, on the strange discontent that prompts us to believe that the life we are not living would be better for us than the life that is ours. If only we had that job/house/girlfriend/husband/sex life, etc. In truth, the life that is ours is the one we make, and that includes our partners. If we really have been criminally careless with the love of our life, and driven him away, or let her go – well, then – we deserve to be unhappy, at least until that unhappiness prompts such a change in us that the miracle of a second chance (with someone else) is not thrown away.

aseaofquotes:

Rudyard Kipling, Captain Courageous

aseaofquotes:

Rudyard Kipling, Captain Courageous

(via mattdpearce)

For me, language is a freedom. As soon as you have found the words with which to express something, you are no longer incoherent, you are no longer trapped by your own emotions, by your own experiences; you can describe them, you can tell them, you can bring them out of yourself and give them to somebody else. That is an enormously liberating experience, and it worries me that more and more people are learning not to use language; they’re giving in to the banalities of the television media and shrinking their vocabulary, shrinking their own way of using this fabulous tool that human beings have refined over so many centuries into this extremely sensitive instrument. I don’t want to make it crude, I don’t want to make it into shopping-list language, I don’t want to make it into simply an exchange of information: I want to make it into the subtle, emotional, intellectual, freeing thing that it is and that it can be. - Jeanette Winterson

For me, language is a freedom. As soon as you have found the words with which to express something, you are no longer incoherent, you are no longer trapped by your own emotions, by your own experiences; you can describe them, you can tell them, you can bring them out of yourself and give them to somebody else. That is an enormously liberating experience, and it worries me that more and more people are learning not to use language; they’re giving in to the banalities of the television media and shrinking their vocabulary, shrinking their own way of using this fabulous tool that human beings have refined over so many centuries into this extremely sensitive instrument. I don’t want to make it crude, I don’t want to make it into shopping-list language, I don’t want to make it into simply an exchange of information: I want to make it into the subtle, emotional, intellectual, freeing thing that it is and that it can be. - Jeanette Winterson

Should she stop and get something to eat? Here were people at an Internet café, humped over keyboards and dishes of fried food, typing with one hand while they gobbled with the other, writing emails and surfing chat rooms while televisions blared from every corner. How interesting it was to be a person who, while considering eating at the airport Internet café, could remember riding a mule on a mud road to get the bus to school. You used to sit in the Greyhound terminal, waiting for the bus, and except for the roar and wheeze of the buses, it was quiet and you had to really look at the people across from you. you had to feel them, and if it was hot, you had to smell them. There might be children chasing each other up and down, or men playing chess on a cardboard table set up on the sidewalk outside, or a woman holding a beautiful baby. But there was nothing to make you think you were anyplace but the Greyhound waiting room. Now people waited to travel crouched over screens, hopping from one outrageous place to the next, and typing opinionated, angry messages—about the war in Iraq or a murder in Minneapolis or parents who were keeping their daughter alive even though she’d been in a coma for ten years—to strangers they would never see, let alone smell. Above their heads actors silently sang and danced and fought; scenes of war and murder flashing like lightning, and heads of state moved their lips as chunks of words streamed over them. You could sit there on the physical plane, absently loading piles of fried food into your mouth while your mind disappeared through a rented computer screen and went somewhere positively astral.
– "Little Boy" by Mary Gaitskill from her collection Don’t Cry. (via imjustlikeyouifyouwereamazing)

Excerpt from The People I Live With Now

And sometimes when you feel you are doing and saying great wonderful true things you have a moment splash up where you think of all the world and how many people falling in love with you because of it. But you are already in love so that feeling must be something else, you swoon to imagine sharing a thought with others also — alive and listening.

winesburgohio:

What amazes me, continually, about this old poet is that maybe I don’t like her stories, but they are always aggressively about things. Other things. They start in a place like her car or her sister is getting married, and they don’t wind up anywhere in particular (usually the same place, but with different punctuation), except all throughout it she’s hinting viciously at you that this is really about art and humanity and civil rights. You know, it’s not the car breaking down, it’s the fundamental difference in her body as she ages, and not just because she, as an individual, gets older, but because we’re all going to die alone and quickly. The level of urgency is astounding. Our fate is universal. At the same time, everything is all the same things. It is champion banality. 
(I think she has been in love a lot. She has a good sense of balance.  “Can I make love to you?” is not something you ask for, it’s just something you take. )
Ginsburg loved her as a “kid” — “Allen was to my own female self a generous friend, though I admit he liked the fact that when I was young I looked like a boy.” Also, her on the cover of Cool For You is strangely unforgettable.

winesburgohio:

What amazes me, continually, about this old poet is that maybe I don’t like her stories, but they are always aggressively about things. Other things. They start in a place like her car or her sister is getting married, and they don’t wind up anywhere in particular (usually the same place, but with different punctuation), except all throughout it she’s hinting viciously at you that this is really about art and humanity and civil rights. You know, it’s not the car breaking down, it’s the fundamental difference in her body as she ages, and not just because she, as an individual, gets older, but because we’re all going to die alone and quickly. The level of urgency is astounding. Our fate is universal. At the same time, everything is all the same things. It is champion banality. 

(I think she has been in love a lot. She has a good sense of balance.  “Can I make love to you?” is not something you ask for, it’s just something you take. )

Ginsburg loved her as a “kid” — “Allen was to my own female self a generous friend, though I admit he liked the fact that when I was young I looked like a boy.” Also, her on the cover of Cool For You is strangely unforgettable.

Sighing over a fantasy drains energy from reality. What happens in our heads isn’t private; it is unspoken, that’s all. We all know what it’s like to live in the stifling atmosphere of what is unsaid.

Love is hard work. We don’t hear enough about that. Falling in love is the easy part – it’s why affairs are so exciting and attractive – none of the toil, all of the fun. I used to have a lot of affairs until I realised it was like growing cress on a flannel – instant results, no roots. Adam Phillips has written eloquently, in Missing Out, on the strange discontent that prompts us to believe that the life we are not living would be better for us than the life that is ours. If only we had that job/house/girlfriend/husband/sex life, etc. In truth, the life that is ours is the one we make, and that includes our partners. If we really have been criminally careless with the love of our life, and driven him away, or let her go – well, then – we deserve to be unhappy, at least until that unhappiness prompts such a change in us that the miracle of a second chance (with someone else) is not thrown away.

aseaofquotes:

Rudyard Kipling, Captain Courageous

aseaofquotes:

Rudyard Kipling, Captain Courageous

(via mattdpearce)

mpdrolet:

Milwaukee, Wisconsin, 2014
Mark Power

mpdrolet:

Milwaukee, Wisconsin, 2014

Mark Power

Yes

Yes

(Source: theboredmillennial)

For me, language is a freedom. As soon as you have found the words with which to express something, you are no longer incoherent, you are no longer trapped by your own emotions, by your own experiences; you can describe them, you can tell them, you can bring them out of yourself and give them to somebody else. That is an enormously liberating experience, and it worries me that more and more people are learning not to use language; they’re giving in to the banalities of the television media and shrinking their vocabulary, shrinking their own way of using this fabulous tool that human beings have refined over so many centuries into this extremely sensitive instrument. I don’t want to make it crude, I don’t want to make it into shopping-list language, I don’t want to make it into simply an exchange of information: I want to make it into the subtle, emotional, intellectual, freeing thing that it is and that it can be. - Jeanette Winterson

For me, language is a freedom. As soon as you have found the words with which to express something, you are no longer incoherent, you are no longer trapped by your own emotions, by your own experiences; you can describe them, you can tell them, you can bring them out of yourself and give them to somebody else. That is an enormously liberating experience, and it worries me that more and more people are learning not to use language; they’re giving in to the banalities of the television media and shrinking their vocabulary, shrinking their own way of using this fabulous tool that human beings have refined over so many centuries into this extremely sensitive instrument. I don’t want to make it crude, I don’t want to make it into shopping-list language, I don’t want to make it into simply an exchange of information: I want to make it into the subtle, emotional, intellectual, freeing thing that it is and that it can be. - Jeanette Winterson

"Should she stop and get something to eat? Here were people at an Internet café, humped over keyboards and dishes of fried food, typing with one hand while they gobbled with the other, writing emails and surfing chat rooms while televisions blared from every corner. How interesting it was to be a person who, while considering eating at the airport Internet café, could remember riding a mule on a mud road to get the bus to school. You used to sit in the Greyhound terminal, waiting for the bus, and except for the roar and wheeze of the buses, it was quiet and you had to really look at the people across from you. you had to feel them, and if it was hot, you had to smell them. There might be children chasing each other up and down, or men playing chess on a cardboard table set up on the sidewalk outside, or a woman holding a beautiful baby. But there was nothing to make you think you were anyplace but the Greyhound waiting room. Now people waited to travel crouched over screens, hopping from one outrageous place to the next, and typing opinionated, angry messages—about the war in Iraq or a murder in Minneapolis or parents who were keeping their daughter alive even though she’d been in a coma for ten years—to strangers they would never see, let alone smell. Above their heads actors silently sang and danced and fought; scenes of war and murder flashing like lightning, and heads of state moved their lips as chunks of words streamed over them. You could sit there on the physical plane, absently loading piles of fried food into your mouth while your mind disappeared through a rented computer screen and went somewhere positively astral."
Excerpt from The People I Live With Now
"

Sighing over a fantasy drains energy from reality. What happens in our heads isn’t private; it is unspoken, that’s all. We all know what it’s like to live in the stifling atmosphere of what is unsaid.

Love is hard work. We don’t hear enough about that. Falling in love is the easy part – it’s why affairs are so exciting and attractive – none of the toil, all of the fun. I used to have a lot of affairs until I realised it was like growing cress on a flannel – instant results, no roots. Adam Phillips has written eloquently, in Missing Out, on the strange discontent that prompts us to believe that the life we are not living would be better for us than the life that is ours. If only we had that job/house/girlfriend/husband/sex life, etc. In truth, the life that is ours is the one we make, and that includes our partners. If we really have been criminally careless with the love of our life, and driven him away, or let her go – well, then – we deserve to be unhappy, at least until that unhappiness prompts such a change in us that the miracle of a second chance (with someone else) is not thrown away.

"

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