Monday January 24, 2011
“you know what they call a Quarter Pounder with Cheese in Paris?”
“They don’t call it a Quarter Pounder with Cheese?”
“No, they got the metric system there, they wouldn’t know what the fuck a Quarter Pounder is.”
“What’d they call it?”
“Royale with Cheese.”
“Royale with Cheese. What’d they call a Big Mac?”
“Big Mac’s a Big Mac, but they call it Le Big Mac.”
“What do they call a Whopper?”
“I dunno, I didn’t go into a Burger King.”
Saturday January 22, 2011
There was this little prince with a magic crown. An evil warlock kidnapped him, locked him in a cell in a huge tower and took away his voice. There was a window made of bars. The prince would smash his head against the bars hoping that someone would hear the sound and find him. The crown made the most beautiful sound that anyone ever heard. You could hear the ringing for miles. It was so beautiful, that people wanted to grab the air. They never found the prince. He never got out of the room. But the sound he made filled everything up with beauty.
Yet genius of a sort must have existed among women as it must have existed among the working classes. Now and again an Emily Bronte or a Robert Burns blazes out and proves its presence. But certainly it never got itself on to paper. When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even of a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet, of some mute and inglorious Jane Austen, some Emily Bronte who dashed her brains out on the moor or mopped and mowed about the highways crazed with the torture that her gift had put her to.
— Virginia Woolf
Saturday January 15, 2011
‘we each have an individual connection with a God or higher power through “a Doc Brown from Back to the Future-style metal helmet” that has an electric tendril reaching up through the sky puncturing the ozone layer, into the heavens, past the Milky Way, right into the mind of God. Like them hair-drying plastic mushroom contraptions beneath which elderly ladies sit in hairdressers, but instead of being attached to a plug socket, they are attached to God. When someone, a critic, a teacher or an enemy attacks you, it’s as if they are petulantly disgruntled and dissatisfied with their own connection to the universe and like snitchy little berks, reach over and yank your tendril. We are all connected to an objective higher mind and through that to each other, so why bother jerking around with other people’s connection? It’s a senseless interference. We all do it, but really what’s the point of sniping at our fellows? You may as well go into your garden and holler abuse at a nasturtium. In the end it’s between you and God.’
—
Matt Morgan via Russell Brand
Friday January 14, 2011
To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket- safe, dark, motionless, airless—it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.
— C.S. Lewis
Sunday January 9, 2011
All good writing is built one good line at a time. You build a novel the same way you do a pyramid. One word, one stone at a time, underneath a full moon while the fingers bleed.
Sunday January 9, 2011
Sometimes you just have to jump out the window and grow wings on the way down.
Sunday January 9, 2011
Saturday January 8, 2011
tumblrbot asked: WHERE WOULD YOU MOST LIKE TO VISIT ON YOUR PLANET?
New York City!
’Beauty is truth; truth, beauty’
- that is all you know on earth,
and all you need to know.
— Keats
Saturday January 8, 2011
