Dikala Bulan Bermain Biola

oldbookillustrations:

The colonel stood by, looking gravely through his glasses.

From  The Cornhill Magazine vol. 39, London, 1879.

A zip file containing the six illustrations of the latest series can be downloaded at this link.

(Source: archive.org)

oldbookillustrations:

The colonel stood by, looking gravely through his glasses.

From The Cornhill Magazine vol. 39, London, 1879.

A zip file containing the six illustrations of the latest series can be downloaded at this link.

(Source: archive.org)

“I write prose the same way I write poetry or anything—I feel pulled into a zone of not knowing, and I try to sing back to that invitation or pull. Maybe my singing is out of phase with the initial invitation, and so they create dissonances, amplifications and weird accidental harmonies. My writing is very sonically driven, it happens not entirely inside rationality, and I try to keep building towards that peak/declivity where the irrational splits apart from the rational and moves the writing outside of the paraphrasable or knowable. I don’t think writing should build any kind of boundary wall, I don’t think writing should wall out the terrible urges and urgencies that have the world skidding on its anthropogenic decline. I believe in a bloody grin and a look of dismay. I believe in influence, especially bad influences. I’m defenseless. I’m against humanism and its graveyard-whistling, though I like both graveyards and whistling. Meet me at the cemetery gates. You know how to whistle, don’t you?”

—   Joyelle McSweeney (via mttbll)

(Source: thefanzine.com, via mttbll)

“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 elucipher)

(Source: invisiblestories, via translatable)

(Source: trashysnacks)

theparisreview:

“An artist is a creature driven by demons. He don’t know why they choose him and he’s usually too busy to wonder why.” —William Faulkner, born on this day in 1897.

theparisreview:

“An artist is a creature driven by demons. He don’t know why they choose him and he’s usually too busy to wonder why.” —William Faulkner, born on this day in 1897.

oldgamemags:

Get Hooked!

Follow oldgamemags on Tumblr for more awesome scans from yesteryear!

oldgamemags:

Get Hooked!

Follow oldgamemags on Tumblr for more awesome scans from yesteryear!

biblioklept:

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)