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19th August 2014

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Too beautiful to be examined

I remain a student of history, more of one than ever, now that our century has torn its way out of its chrysalis and become too beautiful to be examined, too alive to be debated and exploited by played-out intellectuals. The important thing is no longer to predict in what way its grand convulsions might next shake us. Now the important thing is to ride it into the sky.

Denis Johnson, The Name of the World (2000)

Tagged: bookswritinghistoryliteratureDenis Johnson

18th August 2014

Quote

She had a funny way at the ends of her sentences. Rather than a pause, she created a plunge.
— Denis Johnson, The Name of the World (2000)

Tagged: bookswritingspeechlanguageliteratureDenis Johnson

15th August 2014

Post with 1 note

Unrequited passions

One of the advantages of unrequited passions, I find, is that there is no need to worry about infidelity.

One can fall in love with a new person every day and hurt no one except oneself.

No recriminations, no sulking, no painful divorce.

I was an old hand.

Lucy Ellmann, Varying Degrees of Hopelessness (1991)

Tagged: bookswritinghumourlovefeelsLucy Ellmann

22nd July 2014

Post with 3 notes

The serial enigma of the dark

Evil is even, truth is an odd number and death is a full stop. When a dog barks late at night and then retires again to bed, he punctuates and gives majesty to the serial enigma of the dark, laying it more evenly and heavily upon the fabric of the mind. Sweeny in the trees hears the sad baying as he sits listening on the branch, a huddle between the earth and heaven; and he hears also the answering mastiff that is counting the watches in the next parish. Bark answers bark till the call spreads like fire through all Erin. Soon the moon comes forth from behind her curtains riding full tilt across the sky, lightsome and unperturbed in her immemorial calm. The eyes of the mad king upon the branch are upturned, whiter eyeballs in a white face, upturned in fear and supplication. His mind is but a shell.

Flann O’Brien, At Swim-Two-Birds (1939)

Tagged: bookswritingliteraturemoonnightdogsIrelandIrish mythologyIrish literatureFlann O'Brien

1st May 2014

Post with 1 note

The goshawk takes a bath

Gos cocked his head on one side and stared at the water. Odd, he was saying to himself, probably dangerous, but yet I like it. What is it? He put in his beak, leaning forward with every precaution, to see what it tasted of. (Hawks were one of the few creatures which did not regularly drink water except as a laxative: none needed to be provided for them in the mews.) It did not taste of anything, so he put in his beak again. Curious. He looked over his shoulder at the bigger bit of the stuff behind him, roused his feathers with a rattle, inspected the reeds, the landing stage, me motionless. He thought of flying to the landing stage, less than a yard away, and then gave up the idea. He walked down the slope of the plank into the water. All the time I did not know whether he would accept a bath or not.

T. H. White, The Goshawk (1951)

Tagged: bookswritingbirdshawksfalconrywaternatureanimalsliteraturenature writingT. H. White

30th April 2014

Photo reblogged from The Honest ulsterman with 3 notes

thehonestulsterman:

Delighted to announce we’ve resurrected the great (Northern) Irish literary journal The Honest Ulsterman at http://www.humag.co/  
Over the next few days, I’ll write about the contributors, the featured work (from James Joyce to the devil), the history and spirit of the journal and our exciting future plans. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy reading it.
Onwards and upwards. 

thehonestulsterman:

Delighted to announce we’ve resurrected the great (Northern) Irish literary journal The Honest Ulsterman at http://www.humag.co/  

Over the next few days, I’ll write about the contributors, the featured work (from James Joyce to the devil), the history and spirit of the journal and our exciting future plans. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy reading it.

Onwards and upwards. 

Tagged: writingliteratureIrish literatureNorthern IrelandIrelandliterary journalsbooks

18th April 2014

Post with 2 notes

Only earth and sky matter

Dangerous and indifferent ground: against its fixed mass the tragedies of people count for nothing although the signs of misadventure are everywhere. No past slaughter nor cruelty, no accident nor murder that occurs on the little ranches or at the isolate crossroads with their bare populations of three or seventeen, or in the reckless trailer courts of mining towns delays the flood of morning light. Fences, cattle, roads, refineries, mines, gravel pits, traffic lights, graffiti’d celebration of athletic victory on bridge overpass, crust of blood on the Wal-Mart loading dock, the sun-faded wreaths of plastic flowers marking death on the highway are ephemeral. Other cultures have camped here a while and disappeared. Only earth and sky matter. Only the endlessly repeated flood of morning light. You begin to see that God does not owe us much beyond that.

Annie Proulx, ‘People in Hell Just Want a Drink of Water’, from Close Range: Wyoming Stories (1999)

Tagged: bookswritingliteraturelandlandscapeWyomingAmericaAmerican literatureshort storiesAnnie Proulx

17th April 2014

Quote

Serious faults in style are rarely, if ever, matters of ‘mere’ style; they embody real difficulties in conception.
— Richard Hofstadter, Anti-Intellectualism in American Life

Tagged: writingbooksRichard Hofstadterwriting style

3rd April 2014

Link reblogged from Wug Life with 5 notes

Not only . . . but (also) . . . →

wuglife:

Don’t you mean:

Not only is this post quite long and detailed, but it also lacks images…

;-)

I mean exactly what I wrote. :-)

Tagged: writinggrammarstyleconjunctionslanguageEnglishEnglish usageparallelism

30th March 2014

Post with 27 notes

Life is tragic simply because the earth turns

Life is tragic simply because the earth turns and the sun inexorably rises and sets, and one day, for each of us, the sun will go down for the last, last time. Perhaps the whole root of our trouble, the human trouble, is that we will sacrifice all the beauty of our lives, will imprison ourselves in totems, taboos, crosses, blood sacrifices, steeples, mosques, races, armies, flags, nations, in order to deny the fact of death, which is the only fact we have. It seems to me that one ought to rejoice in the fact of death — ought to decide, indeed, to earn one’s death by confronting with passion the conundrum of life.

James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time (1963)

Tagged: bookswritinglifedeathreligionphilosophymysteryJames Baldwin