the three of them were dancing to the hypnotic, rhythmic singing. it went on and on. finally Jane sat down, her face moist, and watched. women often danced together, or even alone, at parties. did Bunning dance? she wondered. no, he wasn’t the sort, nor was he embarrassed by it. he drank too much to dance, but really why did he drink? he didn’t seem to care about things, but he probably cared very much, beneath.
-james salter, “such fun”
The very essence of romance is uncertainty.Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest and Other Plays (via observando)
I would name this squirrel, Foxy.
Trust your imagination. Free fall into it. See where it brings you to. It’s scary, it’s unorganized, and you’re going to have to prepare yourself for some major fucking rewriting—and maybe cut two years of work.
I know, putting up this kind of uncertainty is very difficult. We bring ourselves into these rooms. We bring all of our hopes, all of our longings, all of our shadows. What writing asks of us is the opposite of what being in the American culture asks of us. You’re supposed to have a five-year plan. Young people now are so cautious. Oh, we can’t get married until we have a house. Oh, we can’t have a baby until we have 20 grand in the bank. These crazy, careful people! You know, look: Life is short if you live a hundred years. Better to die naked and reckless and with passion—and not be afraid to fuck up and fail.
(Source: The Atlantic)
A lot of people hate heroes. I was criticized for portraying people who are brave, honest, loving, intelligent. That was called weak and sentimental. People who dismiss all real emotion as sentimentality are cowards. They’re afraid to commit themselves, and so they remain ‘cool’ for the rest of their lives, until they’re dead — then they’re really cool.Mark Helprin (via leslieseuffert)
She felt very old and mature and wise - which showed how young she was.Anne of the Island by L.M. Montgomery (via seekingthespheres)
I just knew in a quiet way I was ruined. If I agreed to be female. There was so much evidence on the screen and in books. I read Doris Lessing in literature class and that depressed the shit out of me too. I just hated reading work by women or about women because it always added up the same. Loss of self, endless self-abnegation even as the female was trying to be an artist, she wound up pregnant, desperate, waiting on some man. A Marxist guy, perhaps. When would it end.Eileen Myles, in her foreword to I Love Dick by Chris Kraus (via beautravail)