Dikala Bulan Bermain Biola


Still Life and Street — M.C. Escher

“For a true writer each book should be a new beginning where he tries again for something that is beyond attainment. He should always try for something that has never been done or that others have tried and failed. Then sometimes, with great luck, he will succeed… How simple the writing of literature would be if it were only necessary to write in another way what has been well written. It is because we have had such great writers in the past that a writer is driven far out past where he can go, out to where no one can help him.”

—   Ernest Hemingway (via mttbll)

(Source: nobelprize.org, via mttbll)

“I never appealed to the general reader, but my reader has never abandoned me. The standard compliment always went like this: ‘You wrote that about me.’ It seems I wrote for and about loners; but it turns out there are lots of them. That reader is enough for me, and deserves my loyalty. After all, the reader and the author always meet face to face. It’s like a meeting with oneself.”

—   Andrei Bitov (via mttbll)

(Source: fsgworkinprogress.com, via mttbll)


Lost Pocketbook, Night Train — Sally Storch

Dead Poets Society [Peter Weir, 1989]


Dead Poets Society [Peter Weir, 1989]

(via just-writer-problems)

"We travel from the hell we live in to the paradise we dream of."
- Anton Arrufat

“Cities have often been compared to language: you can read a city, it’s said, as you read a book. But the metaphor can be inverted. The journeys we make during the reading of a book trace out, in some way, the private spaces we inhabit. There are texts that will always be our dead-end streets; fragments that will be bridges; words that will be like the scaffolding that protects fragile constructions. T.S. Eliot: a plant growing in the debris of a ruined building; Salvador Novo: a tree-lined street transformed into an expressway; Tomas Segovia: a boulevard, a breath of air; Roberto Bolano: a rooftop terrace; Isabel Allende: a (magically real) shopping mall; Gilles Deleuze: a summit; and Jacques Derrida: a pothole. Robert Walser: a chink in the wall, for looking through to the other side; Charles Baudelaire: a waiting room; Hannah Arendt: a tower, an Archimedean point; Martin Heidegger: a cul-de-sac; Walter Benjamin: a one-way street walked down against the flow.”

—   Valeria Luiselli, “Relingos: The Cartography of Empty Spaces” (via invisiblestories)

“As a living writer, one needs a few knocks and a few kicks up the arse to know that the relationship between writing and the state is not easy, and we must encourage it never to be so. Because if it isn’t, you end up doing nothing. Writing takes time, solitude, a mood, a space, living the majority of your time not as other human beings do, running numerous risks; and if you don’t want to continue with these rigours because you’ve been given a prize, it’s better to stay at home with your stipend and not put yourself through the horrible sacrifice of writing. You have to accept that writing is a horrible sacrifice and something you choose, that voluntarily becomes destiny, the only destiny one chooses in life: obey your gift.”


Anton Arrufat

(Source: infiernoflorido, via translatable)


“Read the stories. Read the novels. Just read Hrabal.”