Posts tagged lit.

The one thing that used to piss me most about the Sex Pistols was our audience all turning up in identically cloned punk outfits. That really defeated the point. There was no way I was going to give them a good time for that, because it showed no sense of individuality or understanding of what we were doing. We weren’t about uniformity.

John Lydon (via mariposima)

The word comes along out of the mountain every once in awhile to chill me.

Emily Warn, from “The Word” (via proustitute)

A word is not the same with one writer as with another. One tears it from his guts. The other pulls it out of his overcoat pocket.

Charles Péguy (via wwnorton)

(via proustitute)

That there are such devices as firearms, as easy to operate as cigarette lighters and as cheap as toasters, capable at anybody’s whim of killing Father or Fats or Abraham Lincoln or John Lennon or Martin Luther King, Jr., or a woman pushing a baby carriage, should be proof enough for anybody that, to quote the old science fiction writer Kilgore Trout, ‘being alive is a crock of shit.’

from Timequake, by Kurt Vonnegut (via bpgonzo)

A letter doesn’t communicate by words alone. A letter, just like a book, can be read by smelling it, touching it and fondling it. Thereby, intelligent folk will say, ‘Go on then, read what the letter tells you!’ whereas the dull-witted will say, ‘Go on then, read what he’s written!’

Orhan Pamuk, My Name Is Red, trans. Erdag Goknar (via proustitute)

(via proustitute)

We often notice that a writing subject does not have his writing ‘in his own image’: if you love me ‘for myself,’ you do not love me for my writing (and I suffer from it).

Roland Barthes, A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments, trans. Richard Howard (via proustitute)

Begin at the beginning, as if the beginning were the clearly visible point of a loosely wound thread and all we had to do was to keep pulling until we reached the other end, and as if, between the former and the latter, we had held in our hands a smooth, continuous thread with no knots to untie, no snarls to untangle, a complete impossibility in the life of a skein, or indeed, if we may be permitted one more stock phrase, in the skein of life.

José Saramago (via whiskey river)

If somebody says, ”I love you,” to me, I feel as though I had a pistol pointed at my head. What can anybody reply under such conditions but that which the pistol-holder requires? I love you, too.

Kurt Vonnegut (via uber-alles)

(via notmanetstype)

Oh what a grind it is embodying all these ideas and having perpetually to expose my mind, opened and intensified as it is by the heat of creation, to the blasts of the outer world. If I didn’t feel so much, how easy it would be to go on.

Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry dated 18 March 1935 (via proustitute)

Time passes, and the system turns on you. When
all is sacred, nothing is safe: silent lampposts suddenly
pipe up in irresistible colloquy a tone too high, the sky
calls you but does not want your replies, and
water-bound birds decline pronouns in Latin. It is a hotbed
that cannot stand the addition of an offending
presence; it whispers until you are well on your way.

Rachel Wetzsteon, from “The Other Stars” (via proustitute)