Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961)

It is due to feeling alone that a thing becomes freed from abstraction and becomes something individual and concrete.
Simone Weil, Lectures in Philosophy, trans. Hugh Price (via weil-weil)

“’Fail better,’ Samuel Beckett commanded, a phrase that has been taken on by business executives as some kind of ersatz wisdom. They have missed the point completely. Beckett didn’t mean failure-on-the-way-to-delayed-success, which is what the FailCon crowd thinks he meant. To fail better, to fail gracefully and with composure, is so essential because there’s no such thing as success. It’s failure all the way down. At the center of this web of catastrophes and losses and despairs and mistakes sits a single, obvious culprit: the act of writing itself. In the best work, the intentions of the author fall away, leaving an open field for readers to play in, and they create meanings that may have nothing to do with the author’s. Jonathan Swift famously intended ‘Gulliver’s Travels’ as an indictment of all humanity but ended up leaving a story for children. The joy of language is also a torment. ‘Human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we tap crude rhythms for bears to dance to,’ Flaubert wrote, ‘while we long to make music that will melt the stars.’ When I hear the phrase ‘writing community,’ usually uttered by those without enough talent to hate other writers for theirs, my first instinct is to reach for the napalm. But failure really does bind us. Flaubert longing to melt the stars and the kid receiving her first rejection letter are the same. All of our little streams pour out into the ocean of total uncaring. If there are to be any claims to greatness, they are to be found only in the scope of the failure and persistence in the face of it. That persistence may be the one truly writerly virtue, a salvation indistinguishable from stupidity. To keep going, despite everything. To keep bellying up to the cosmic irrelevance. To keep failing.”

Stephen Marche, “Failure is Our Muse” 

Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.
Anton Chekhov (via introspectivepoet)

Marilyn Monroe in How to Marry a Millionaire (1953)

The shade
falls like a lover’s sad black eyes.
Lie under me, speak of other worlds.

Jane Miller, closing lines to “I Saw the Sun Rise in the West Today,” Mississippi Review (vol. 39, no. 1-3, 2012)
Some days in late August at home are like this, the air thin and eager like this, with something in it sad and nostalgic and familiar…
William Faulkner, The Sound and Fury (via introspectivepoet)
Most of our childhood is stored not in photos, but in certain biscuits, lights of day, smells, textures of carpet.
Alain de Botton (via wordsthat-speak)


Artist Vik Muniz uses thousands of torn scraps of paper to recreate classical, 19th-century paintings from the likes of Van Gogh, Manet, and Degas.

Seize the moments of happiness, love and be loved! That is the only reality in the world, all else is folly. It is the one thing we are interested in here.
Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace (via introspectivepoet)
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