Nothing is as obnoxious as other people’s luck.
F. Scott Fitzgerald (via emptyshelves)
Category Archives: Non-Fiction
I look in the mirror through the eyes of the child that was me.
:: Judy Collins
What the really great artists do is they’re entirely themselves. They’re entirely themselves, they’ve got their own vision, they have their own way of fracturing reality, and if it’s authentic and true, you will feel it in your nerve endings.
David Foster Wallace (via thetenderestoftrees)
Sometimes we get sad about things and we don’t like to tell other people that we are sad about them. We like to keep it a secret. Or sometimes, we are sad but we really don’t know why we are sad, so we say we aren’t sad but we really are.
Mark Haddon, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time
(via anamorphosis-and-isolate)
Excerpt from Men We Reaped – Jesmyn Ward
From 2000 to 2004, five Black young men I grew up with died, all violently, seemingly unrelated deaths…That’s a brutal list, in its immediacy and it’s relentlessness, and it’s a list that silences people. It silenced me for a long time. To say this is difficult is understatement; telling this story is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But my ghosts were once people, and I cannot forget that.
Men We Reaped: A Memoir by Jesmyn Ward, 2013
Be obscure clearly.
:: E.B. White
After Suicide- Poets.org – Poetry, Poems, Bios & More
Big congrats to Matt Rasmussen, whose book, Black Aperture (winner of our 2012 Walt Whitman First-Book Award), was named a National Book Award finalist! Click here to listen to Rasmussen reading “After Suicide.”
Because in the end, you won’t remember the time you spent working in the office or mowing your lawn. Climb that goddamn mountain.
Jack Kerouac (via the-mineral-king)
A new novel takes vengeance on Google, Facebook
The Circle, by Dave Eggers, carries the potential to change how the world views its addicted, compliant thrall to all things digital.
That country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coalbins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain.
drunken library 