Sondre’s back! “Lucifer” is my favorite on this album so far, I think.
Business editor, to photographer who’s been with the paper for 30+ years about an assignment he covered: “Are those photos any good?”
Photographer: “I don’t know. I tried to make them shitty.”
I want to overhear passionate arguments about what we are and what we are doing and what we ought to do. I want to feel that art is an utterance made in good faith by one human being to another. I want to believe that there are geniuses scheming to astonish the rest of us, just for the pleasure of it. I miss civilization and I want it back.
Marilynne Robinson, The Death of Adam: Essays of Modern Thought
“Some people are born to make great art and others are born to appreciate it. … It is a kind of talent in itself, to be an audience, whether you are the spectator in the gallery or you are listening to the voice of the world’s greatest soprano. Not everyone can be the artist. There have to be those who witness the art, who love and appreciate what they have been privileged to see.”
― Ann Patchett, Bel Canto
"I love these little gum spots on the ground! It’s like a city of polka dots!"
As parody pranks go, this one manages to be good-natured and sweet while still hilarious.
By all that’s wonderful it is the sea, I believe, the sea itself—or is it youth alone? Who can tell? But you here—you all had something out of life: money, love—whatever one gets on shore—and tell me, wasn’t that the best time, that time when we were young at sea; young and had nothing, on the sea that gives nothing, except hard knocks—and sometimes a chance to feel your strength—that only—what you all regret?
Police continue to make arrests at Ferguson protest.
Take note: The moment people stopped reblogging and tweeting and writing news articles and calling attention to Ferguson, they brought back the armored cars. It is not over. They were waiting for the world to lose interest and knew it would.
This ugly, ugly world.
"Kids don’t know what fractals are!"
This might be the best one yet.
Last evening the moon rose above this rock
Impure upon a world unpurged.
The man and his companion stopped
To rest before the heroic height.
Coldly the wind fell upon them
In many majesties of sound:
They that had left the flame-freaked sun
To seek a sun of fuller fire.
Instead there was this tufted rock
Massively rising high and bare
Beyond all trees, the ridges thrown
Like giant arms among the clouds.
There was neither voice nor rested image,
No chorister, nor priest. There was
Only the great height of the rock
And the two of them standing still to rest.
There was the cold wind and the sound
It made, away from the muck of the land
That they had left, heroic sound
Joyous and jubilant and sure.