CraftNEWYORK is destined to become one of the most talked about craft events in the nation.
CraftNEWYORK, a benefit for CERF+ (Craft Emergency Relief Fund + Artists’ Emergency Resources), will take place Friday April 1 through Sunday April 3, 2011 at NYC’s 7W New York, on 34th Street at Fifth Avenue, directly across from the Empire State Building.
The inaugural exhibit and sale is a must see for anyone interested in the finest American craft being made today and will feature 100 internationally renowned artists producing one-of-a-kind and limited edition pieces. Working within, and expanding from, the traditions of Louis Comfort Tiffany, Gustav Stickley, Alexander Calder, Isamu Noguchi, George Nakashima and Dale Chihuly, the award winning artists chosen for CraftNewYork have become America’s “living treasures”.
Net profits from admission to CraftNEWYORK will benefit CERF+ (Craft Emergency Relief Fund + Artists’ Emergency Response), a non profit organization committed to supporting the careers of craft artists throughout the United States.
35 graffiti writers and street artists unite to reclaim the former Donnell Library as a repository of visual information on the growing world-wide phenomenon of street art. This exhibition presents an art historical timeline that is a part of New York City’s unique legacy. The artistic contribution of these cultural catalysts and preservationists from the 70’s to the new millennium addresses the ever-changing urban landscape and alternative modes of producing art in the streets.
GRASSROOTS OUTREACH UNDERESTIMATED, CAUSING RESCHEDULING OF OPENING RECEPTION
Thanks to the overwhelming support and response from the artists and press community, PANTHEON guests have outgrown the available room for the previously scheduled reception. The reception is being rescheduled and will be relocated to a venue that is to be announced.
SET IN THE CITY THAT DOESN’T SLEEP, PANTHEON IS ON VIEW 24 HOURS A DAY!!!
The exhibition features paintings, mixed media work and sculpture from 35 artists. The works include a reconstructed canvas of corporal representation by Adam VOID, an autobiographical allegory from the streets by Faro, a metaphorical self-portrait by Freedom, a Duchampian work done and framed with banal yet commercially contentious material by Jordan Seiler, a stenciling kit adorned with street philosophy by John Fekner and Don Leicht, an intricate cutout and mixed media sociopolitical assemblage by NohJColey, busts of heroes past, present, and future by John Ahearn and Rigoberto Torres, a site-specific installationin the same vein as Schwitters by Skewville, and a large-scale 3D representation of graffiti’s tenets and flatness by the 907 crew.
Abe Lincoln, Jr., John Ahearn with Rigorberto Torres, Adam VOID, Cassius Fouler, Cake, Darkclouds, Droid, El Celso, Ellis Gallagher, Faro, John Fekner with Don Leicht, Freedom, Gen2, Abby Goodman, Goya, Groser, Richard Hambleton, infinity, KET, LSD-Om, Matt Siren, NohJColey, OverUnder, Oze 108, Quel Beast, Royce Bannon, Sadue, Jordan Seiler, Skewville, Stikman, Toofly, UFO, and Vudu.
I don’t know why, but I decided to write an unprovoked rant about fiction. Here’s the end result.
So much has been done with fiction. So many places and characters have been made up, sometimes as a struggling artist you get to wondering what the hell is there left to do anything with? How many more dragons can put the hurt on a knight trying to save something? What else can go wrong on a faraway planetary settlement? Can four women sitting around a cafe table set in NYC not end up sounding like one of a thousand scenes from Sex in the City? Maybe. Maybe not. You have a voice inside you. A way of telling things no one else can. Give 5 great authors the same damn plot outline to any classic tale of whatever and you know you’ll get 5 great different stories back. Got an idea that you’re worried is too similar to Grapes of Wrath? I say, Who cares? I say, Do it anyway. I say, If all the good shit’s been used up, get the hell down on your knees and scrape up what’s leftover and make something, anything, just don’t give up and do nothing. If all you see is a literary wasteland, then write wasteland fiction. Hold nothing back.
I told myself once, I want to kill a whale with my bare hands, so I wrote a story about a whale’s last day on earth. I was in Costco once and thought to myself, “I wonder, with the way society is getting more and more open about sex, (albeit slowly, thank God) if you’ll be able to one day buy a sex robot here.” So I wrote a story about a lonely guy who does. In writing this paragraph I asked myself could there be a dangerous alien species that are shaped like toilets? Sure there is, because I’m going to make it happen.
I don’t, in the least, claim to be good at doing what I think is fiction writing. But I know I’m fucking amazing at writing MY fiction, because no one else in the world can.
Hosted by Triple Canopy and Dalkey Archive Press, Featuring “An Afternoon of Failure”
Saturday, April 2 3:00-5:00 PM
Triple Canopy and Dalkey Archive Press host an afternoon of failure to celebrate the release of the Review of Contemporary Fiction’s “Failure” issue, guest-edited by Joshua Cohen. The program will include attempted readings from the issue by Eileen Myles, Helen DeWitt, Sam Frank, Travis Jeppesen, and Keith Gessen; a botched tribute to the classics of American literature by John Collins and Scott Shepherd of the theater group Elevator Repair Service; mangled covers of pop songs by US Girls; and an attempt to resurrect William Gaddis.
Joshua Cohen’s most recent novel is Witz (2010). He is the guest editor of the Review of Contemporary Fiction’s “Failure” issue.
Eileen Myles’s Inferno (a poet’s novel) is just out from OR books. For the essay collection The Importance of Being Iceland (2009), she received a Creative Capital/Warhol Foundation grant. Sorry, Tree (2007) is her most recent book of poems. In 2010, the Poetry Society of America awarded her the Shelley Prize.
Helen DeWitt is author of The Last Samurai (2000) and, with Ilya Gridneff, coauthor of Your Name Here (2007).
Sam Frank is an editor of Triple Canopy.
Travis Jeppesen is a novelist, poet, and art critic based in Berlin. His books includeVictims (2003), Poems I Wrote While Watching TV (2006), Wolf at the Door (2007), and a collection of art criticism, Disorientations: Art on the Margins of the “Contemporary”(2008).
Keith Gessen is an editor of n+1. His translation of Voices from Chernobyl won the National Book Critics Circle award for nonfiction in 2005. His first novel, All the Sad Young Literary Men, was published by Viking in 2008.
Elevator Repair Service, a theater ensemble, was founded by director John Collins and a group of actors in 1991. At MoMA PS1, ERS presents a sneak preview of a new collaboration with installation artists Ben Rubin and Mark Hansen. They will playfully mine several of their past shows and reimagine the material as it falls apart and reforms itself into unexpected new scenes. The work will feature Scott Shepherd, star of the group’s acclaimed Gatz, a six-hour enactment of The Great Gatsby.
US Girls (Meg Remy) has released two albums, Introducing and Go Grey, both on Siltbreeze, and singles and CD-Rs on Chocolate Monk, Not Not Fun, Hardscrabble Amateurs, Cherry Burger, and Atelier Ciseaux.
William Gaddis (1922–1998) was the author of five novels, two of which won National Book Awards. He taught a course titled “Literature of Failure” at Bard College in 1979.
Triple Canopy is an online magazine, workspace, and platform for editorial and curatorial activities. Working collaboratively with writers, artists, and researchers, Triple Canopy facilitates projects that engage the Internet’s specific characteristics as a public forum and as a medium, one with its own evolving practices of reading and viewing, economies of attention, and modes of interaction. In doing so, Triple Canopy is charting an expanded field of publication, drawing on the history of print culture while acting as a hub for the exploration of emerging forms and the public spaces constituted around them.
The Review of Contemporary Fiction was launched in 1981 to provide a critical discourse around innovative literary works of the highest caliber that have largely been ignored by the mainstream media. Over the years, the Review has provided an alternative canon for contemporary fiction and has introduced such writers as David Foster Wallace, David Markson, and Gilbert Sorrentino, well before they were embraced by the critical establishment. (Wallace served for a time as an editor of the journal, and guest-edited a “Future of Fiction” issue, in 1996.) The Review has also published numerous anthology issues dedicated to new writing from foreign countries, special issues dedicated to innovative publishers (Grove Press, Editions P.O.L), and special topic issues, including the present “Failure” issue.
Ladies and Gentlemen, Artists of all Genders, Ages and Geographic Locations;
Get inspired by your favorite pair of x chromosomes.
We are looking for portraits of magnificent females, to be submitted by April 2nd.
The Subjects may be real or fictional. The Portraits may be drawings, paintings, photography or mixed media. They may be originals or reproductions of your original art. Poems and short stories are also welcome. Express yourself freely.
Funny story: My old man gets cancer, survives, vows thenceforth to see as much of the world as he can, drags me all over creation, and leaves mind-bending mishaps in his wake. Our next mission? Tour rapidly defrosting Iceland and Greenland. Bad idea? You could say that.
Like junkies tapping the vein of a happy childhood memory, linking today’s minute pleasure with that innocent moment from long ago. A pedophiliac parade of our pathetic personality, unable to have the matured sublimed adult satisfaction we crave. Crack cocaine cut credit cards, shopping till we drop, exhausted, strung out and unsatisfied.
Mine is the story of man.
My kicks glowed with the smooth burn of crimson charcoal, tinged scorched black from the spatial ash. I initiated the cooldown mode and soon the sneakers slowed to a moody blue hue, crisp and crackling like ice. Laser slicing through the delirious daydream, I found myself standing at the starting line of a new race.
The memories of the skipped by day started catching up to me. Thousands of seconds transferred over translucent miles. Slowly at first, then with increasing fierce viscosity, the day flooded my mind.
Fighting through the teeming masses, strung together in tight bonds of insecure immaturity, I found myself in the villains’ lair. Convention defied, I sought out the truth only to beaten low by the exploited smut of boyhood dreams. Muscle bound monstrosities and silicon shots rang out with the reverberations of celebrated tenacity.
Cramming backwards, more life fired through my neurons. A fellow agent, lost and babbling truth incarnate, found on the polar opposite end of my old life. He told me of his ways, his insights and life as he sees it true. I told him of the training I had received and delivered to him my initiate unlocking pamphlet. This must have been why I was brought here.
Here to low point, flipped across the country on fighter jet blues. Roaring, rocketing, spiraling through streams of cirrus salutations, Spider piloted the jet clear across the land. Stomach drops and pulse pounding plunges reduced my nervous system to putty. Missiles penetrated our enemies’ secure systems as they attempted to halt our progress. Explosive results reduced the rabble to rubble. The reach of their feeble old world forces fell far short of our liquid camouflaged, subsonic, bionic blastjet.
"Hold onto your lunch!" Spider lurched the controls sending our fragile flesh, temporarily encased in metal tubing, into a barrel roll diving down below, where the radar scans could not follow.
Spider had met me at the airport, standing at the far end of the security tunnel. Metal detectors and lazy security shoved me through. Yelled at and barked orders to remove my potentially dangerous equipment, I fumbled through, beeping only once. Beat red, feeling lame and abused, I made my way to Spider’s side.
"Quit that shit. Don’t impose their everyday tyranny on yourself. They have no true power over you save those several seconds of your life."
The face of digital media has shifted considerably in the last two years. Facebook is now our time-tested platform of news and voyeurisim; every cell phone has a camera, and every step in a day is now a landscape for a mobile upload, Tumblr post, or a Twitpic. Twitter and Klout.com have actualized the web influence of a celebrity, media entity, or small-town digital guru—and have made this digital com score and follower amalgam all-too-public knowledge. Traditional media, both print and TV, has been leapfrogged, as the gap between consumer and celebrity/designer/artist is now but a tweet away. As television has lost viewers to YouTube, networks, albeit far too slowly, have mirrored their higher-performing shows on Hulu, iTunes, and have produced on-demand publishes through conventional DVR, as they have through integrated cable-to-web, and then web-to-mobile, set top box solutions such as SlingBox. TV has since collided with independently-produced video, as Hulu embeds battle for the same blog space as an independently-produced Vimeo video within the news feeds of blogs, social media hubs, and weighted content aggregation sites like Digg.
Stories within stories, dreams and made-up universes are all tricky because once you leave your story’s established world the reader may leave you too. How do you keep them with you?
Stories within stories can go badly wrong. The reader knows it is not ‘true’. Yes, fiction isn’t true anyway, but the reader allows that because they bought into it when they opened the book. But they didn’t necessarily agree to read the characters’ fiction, or spend long periods in their dream worlds. The reader needs to be connected securely with the other world and want to go there.
I don’t know why I cried out that word in my final moment. As the debris came crashing down all around me, the gigantic space cruiser raining upon the streets of Metropolis, I felt the pressure of the air rooting me to where I stood. The energy blast roared above me, ripping through the atmosphere, looming like a ball of incinerating death, there was nowhere to run.
Just a photo editor for the Daily Planet, got the gig with my pal Jimmy Olsen’s recommendation, first day on the job, fresh to the big city, now I was dead. Blown to bits, a casulity in a larger than life battle for intergalactic dominance. I watched the Justice League tear through the skies as my entire being was eradicated by a pulse blast from a Dominion BattleCruiser.
Or at least that’s what Deadman called it. Now he’s my only friend, floating intangibily alongside me, schooling me in the basics of superherodom as he escorts me to the other side. Boston Brand is his real name, and I go to tell him mine, only I can’t seem to remember it.
"Kid.", I say unsure of myself, recalling a nickname that sits alone in my memory.
When I don’t cross over to the afterlife he brings me to a floating diamond shaped stone on the flipside of reality. The lightning bolt t-shirt on my chest reminded him of another hero, a family of heroes. He called it the Rock of Eternity, guarded by a bearded hero called Shazam, and the Marvel Family.
He slicked back his hair, bound it in a ponytail, and snapped his leather jacket tight to his glowing white chest. He pushed his rounded sunglasses, his goggles from the raw reality around him, up on the bridge of his nose as he grinned. The chaotic swirling tear in reality threatened to swallow the enitre scene.
Cliff Steele could feel the nuts and bolts of his robotic body rattle. Swamp Thing’s raw vegetable body began to fall apart, slopping and dripping across the laboratory floor. Shade the Changing Man could hear the cries of infinite madness just beyond the veil of this vertigo inducing reality.
Kid Infinity, as he calls himself now that he’s been supercharged by the Chaos Engines of the Underworld, leaps into the abyss as the heroes reach out towards him in defiance and fear.
He’s gone. Infinity has left the building. The universe begins to collapse.
Creator vs. Critic is the 1st of a 3 (or 4?) part series I’m doing doing with “Savage Critic” Abhay Khosla. For each “fight”, we’re using a different type of comic as a launching point for a discussion about comics in general.
We start this month with Mainstream Superhero Comics, as…
Jim Marshall is part of the Morrison Gallery family. Henry Diltz wanted Jim to be the first photographer we brought into their gallery back in the days when they featured only Henry’s photographs. After many years of great images, a cantankerous and beautiful friendship, they are honored to…
Here are some notes and images from Lois Lane: Girl Reporter, a pitch for a series of illustrated young adult novels I worked on a few years ago for DC Comics. Story by me, with considerable brainstorming help from my pal John Campbell, and art by Project: Rooftop fan favorite Daniel Krall.
My wonderful editor, Chris Cerasi, was a real champion of the series, which we codenamed “Project 77,” and while we had a great time working on it and finding this secret window into the DCU, it doesn’t look like the current leadership of DC is remotely interested in this kinda thing. I thought some Lois Lane fans here on the interwebs might at least like a look at what might have been…
“I wanted to put a reference to masturbation in one of the scripts for the Sandman. It was immediately cut by the editor [Karen Berger]. She told me, “There’s no masturbation in the DC Universe.” To which my reaction was, “Well that explains a lot about the DC Universe.”—
Well I first said no, for all the obvious reasons. It’s not really what I do; it’s not a genre that’s in my wheelhouse. But then I started thinking about, What if there were such a person in today’s world and what must it be like to be her? And I was imagining the sense of social isolation that she must feel, that she indeed would probably be a rather complicated beast. When I started thinking about all the complications and potential layers to this superhero, I just got more and more intrigued. It was also something I was a little bit afraid of. That’s good, too. Any writer should get out of his or her comfort zone, and this was way outside of mine.
So I took a deep breath and decided to go for it. I did not truthfully commit to doing it until I wrote the script. I was going to try writing it, and if I failed on my own terms, I would say no. If I thought, Yeah, this is something I believe in, then I’d turn it in. And it was something I ultimately did get behind. It was hard, but I had a good time writing it. And Warner Bros. and DC both responded very positively — and off we went.
Design a character(s) based on the short description and research materials provided…that’s it!
Winner gets to be smug about it, and create the details for the next character!
DEADLINE: posting will start Wednesday at Midnight, April 6th, 2011 and will go till the Weekend (Friday 4/8 at Midnight)
CURRENT CHALLENGE: “The nightmare corpse-city of R’lyeh…was built in measureless eons behind history by the vast, loathsome shapes that seeped down from the dark stars. There lay great Cthulhu and his hordes, hidden in green slimy vaults.” -HPL” LOVECRAFTIAN HERO
Let’s go with new ideas and concepts people, leave all your preconceived notions of Lovecraftian Myth behind!
The Challenge: Write from the point of view of an Utz brand Crab Chip (The one with Chesapeake Bay seasoning)
The Challenger: Tim Mucci (For Slice Magazine)
We live in the bag. We live in the darkness. Cramped together in the stale, spiced air we wait. We commune with our bag-brothers who are in the wide outside-world. They have names like the Wise tribe, the Lays people, the Pringle, and many others. We are the Utz. We are proud warriors who wait for the day of the great opening, when the punishing light of the after-world will shine through a tear in the dark-sky, and the great — Holder-of-the-bag — will be revealed. In the darkness we wait, and we speak of the before-world. Before we were ripped from the earth-womb. Before we had our roots cut, our skin removed. Before we were split, and chipped and cooked and exiled to the dark of the bag. We, all of us, yearn to be whole once more. And so we wait in the dark. That irascible and quiet dark that sometimes rumbles and thunders and strikes out at us breaking our bodies to crumbs.
The Wise tribe speaks of The Holder-of-the-bag. They say that it is the great deliverer, that it comes to pick us up and make us whole again. The Wise lay in greasy slovenly hordes, praying for the day that the
Holder comes. We do not agree with the Wise. We have heard a tale about an Utz warrior who was taken by the Holder, lifted up toward a great yawning maw, slick with acid and filled with crushing teeth. The warrior escaped somehow, was dropped, and hid beneath a couch cushion for many days. For many days he watched as the Holder devoured his brothers, their bodies crunching loudly in its mouth, their greasy blood covering its face. He watched as the Holder sucked each drop of grease off of its fingers, and wiped the blood of his brothers on its pant leg. He watched until a shaggy beast, sniffed him out and crunched him up.
We know the true intent of the Holder, we have named it the Eater, and it is with the Eater that we go to war. The Pringle shares our philosophy. They too believe in the Eater, but they accept their fate. They believe that it is only through being eaten that we can reclaim our wholeness in the after-world. They wait in orderly rows, quiet and docile. We believe that one can never reclaim ones wholeness. Not in the after-world or in the steaming belly of the Eater. One can, however, gain honor in battling the Eater.
The old chips speak of a redeeming spud who was never split in the machines of the before-world. A spud with one-hundred blazing eyes, a root system that weaves through time and space, and a skin so thick that nothing in the before or after-world may pierce it. They say that only the Redeeming Spud can defeat the Eater, and through him we will be saved and made whole again. We do not listen to the old chips who pray in the darkness.
We do not pray like the old chips…we wait. We wait to strike. There are chips among us who will not fight. Chips who curl themselves up, thinking that will be a proper defense against the gnashing of the Eater. There are some who will secret packets of spices and salt thinking that the Eater will find their taste foul and spit them out. There is no wisdom in this behavior, for the Eater seems to seek these chips out with salivatory abandon.
We teach the young chips how to fight. We teach them the secrets of the spices. The spices from the Old Bay. We show them how to cover their bodies with ginger and paprika, how to lay cardamom over cinnamon in such a way that it creates a taste that the Eater finds wretched.
Often it is these same spices that will stave off the Eater for a long time. Leaving us in peace on the back shelf, watching as our more delectable bag-brothers are taken into the after-world.
And while we wait, we teach.
We teach the young how to shape their bodies into spears and claws, how to sharpen their edges so that even as the Eater chews on them they will slice its mouth to ribbons. We teach them how to move and to angle themselves so that once they’re devoured they can stand straight and tall and drive their edges into the roof of the Eater’s mouth and gums.
I teach the young chips how to be warriors because I know that when the sky rips open, and the Eater descends and grabs me, that no matter how hard I battle it, I will be Eaten, and they will be next. For it is well known that the Eater…cannot eat…just one.
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 23 - Hail! the SpiderGod!
The futureburger awaits consumption as I sit down trying to figure it all out. The sun glows supernova summer and deep in my cave I scratch etchings in my virtual cavespace. Does this ring true? Can near non-existence read as adventure pulp?
Digital bloodshed flows before me, ringing with true sympathetic sadism. I’m throwing written jabs and hooks, swinging for the soft spots. Nothing seems to connect as I anticipate the dialogue flow that is to come. Characters? Not within this story. This story is the voice, omniscient and trustworthy, blessed with unified purpose.
"Where am I going with this?", I wondered as I looked up at Chow Yun Fat delivering a beat down. "I’m treading thin water here. No one’s following this are they? Maybe we’ve grabbed a few lizard-brained types, snatching a high off the linguistic-lysurgic-acid that I distilled into minature bitmapped graphics that dance before your eyes as they read these words.
"These exact words."
Who the hell is this? I’m supposed to have the apartment to myself today and of course someone drops by. I get up to get the door and I see the intense shadow shape that surges my entire body with mental stimulation. A full body tickle up the nervous system peaking in a glorious blaze within our minds.
Who the fuck is this? The sun beat down hard like a solar death ray charring the edges off this monolithic figure. I pushed open the screen door as I began to fall to my knees.
"Hey there guy. Watch yourself."
His arm was there like it was carved from stone. It felt real and true, unwavering in its strength as I clung to it for support.
"No problem. So how’s it going?"
"Life? Okay I guess. I’m getting used to it."
"It’s a bit easier coming from the other side. I don’t envy you."
"Really? It’s kind of hard to judge how I’m doing."
"Well, I’m liking the work so far."
"You’ve read it?"
"Absolutely. It’s rough around the edges but there’s some raw talent there."
"You think so? It’s so hard for me to accept that. Not sure why. I guess I feel I don’t deserve to be good at anything."
"You see man? That’s the kind of crap I’m talking about. Nobody is going to like somebody with that frame of mind. It just poisons the whole package."
"I kind of see what you mean. It’s like how I’m acting with other people is sort of who I am in the world, and who I am in the world is who I think I am. It’s a symbiotic nature I guess. Wrestling that duality of thinking, between our role in society and our internal self, that’s where we need the balance."
"You’re on the right lines of thinking but that’s also your problem."
"I don’t follow."
"Thinking, and adding all that nonsense of what people are thinking and needing to know. It’s all crap. That only defines you so far. The rest is standing up like a man, making a mark, carving out a path that is righteous and in following with your obsessive idealistic nature. You owe the world nothing less than greatest world you can imagine."
"It’s hard to really say I get what you mean, to truly understand it. I guess that’s why we need the story. The story in all its variations allow us to become initiated in all manner of schizophrenic states. Not only crossing cultural influence now, we mix in the mental states of the creators of our celebrity society. We long to bask in the sun of the temporarily divine rays of stardom."
"Making the mix this time around all the more potent. You’ve got access to the minds of a world of like-minded agents."
"Wow. This is just like one of those really heavy conversations I’ve always wanted to have."
"Well it couldn’t be anyone else’s."
"Jeez. I just realized I haven’t even invited you in. C’mon in. Do you want a beer or something?"
"Yeah, sure. Grab two and meet me outside."
With that he let the door close between us. I stumbled back into the cold dark of the apartment. I found my way to the fridge and plucked out two silver bullets.
I stepped into the open air, betwixt by the celebratory satisfaction that hangs all around me, guitar solo sirens singing the summertime to life. The ice breaks with a double bass slam roaring to life at the tip of a metal wand.
He sits at the top of the stairs reveling in the descriptive sanity that grumbles like a weekend run of a motorcycle engine. The start of the free floating tummy-rumblings that weave through our bodies at the ascent of the thundering rollercoaster.
He laughs at me. My silly tendencies to relish in the simple moments.
"They were always my favorite too."
If there was another me sitting down typing this out, would I create a being that sat all-knowing at the forefronts of the gap between the writer and the reader? Would I have a gatekeeper that was a bit of me reading the story I was living? Was I deeply connected to the divinity of my destiny? What did any of that even mean?
What does any of this really mean? Where is this voice really coming from? This is your own individual voice, that much is true. Warbled into existence by the continuing pace of your word consumption. But it’s my voice, my shape that you are building in your mind. My order sculpted from your mass.
Is this a story, a novel, a short story, a poem, prose, biography, autobiography, psychotic, sane, selfish, sorry, sad, singular, new, old, influenced, original, boring, satisfactory, sharp, dull, interesting, arresting, developing, daring, dung, fun, fair, factory fed, or hacked out?
“I’d say to myself or whoever I was with, ‘It’ll look good in the biography.’ and then I’d go ahead and do whatever daft thing it was - like taking acid on the sacred mesa or doing the bungee-jump, getting the haircut, dancing with the stranger, talking to the crowd - whatever I was ‘scared’ of mostly, or fancied doing, or never dared before, I’d try it on the basis that it would make for a more interesting read one day.”—Grant Morrison (via unlikely-lucky)
“I’ve been making a list of the things they don’t teach you at school. They don’t teach you how to love somebody. They don’t teach you how to be famous. They don’t teach you how to be rich or how to be poor. They don’t teach you how to walk away from someone you don’t love any longer. They don’t teach you how to know what’s going on in someone else’s mind. They don’t teach you what to say to someone who’s dying. They don’t teach you anything worth knowing.”—Neil Gaiman (submitted by Bibliophobic)