awritersruminations:

The moral backbone of literature is about that whole question of memory. To my mind it seems clear that those who have no memory have the much greater chance to lead happy lives. But it is something you cannot possibly escape: your psychological make-up is such that you are inclined to look back over your shoulder. Memory, even if you repress it, will come back at you and it will shape your life. Without memories there wouldn’t be any writing: the specific weight an image or phrase needs to get across to the reader can only come from things remembered.

—W.G. Sebald

abitlate:

jeremymlange:

whitney museum, 2010

from writing about architecture: mastering the language of buildings and cities by alexandra lange

the book is out, super excited about this

read alexandra’s essay and see a slideshow on places journal here

Super super excited.

“The process of writing and directing drives you to such extremes that it’s natural to feel an affinity with insanity. I approach that madness as something dangerous and I’m afraid, but also I want to go to it, to see what’s there, to embrace it. I don’t know why but I’m drawn.”
—Dario Argento

esquared:

““Paramour” was a title the men probably didn’t deserve. Most of her relationships premarriage lasted only a few months or half a dozen dates, whichever came first, just long enough for the thrill of new sex to fade or for her to find a guy who interested her more. Unlike some of her friends, who found one-night stands dehumanizing, Rebecca enjoyed them. She would pick up the men—comedians, drummers, actors, or screenwriters—at bars on the Lower East Side or in the East Village, usually with a girlfriend as a wingman, thrilling in the chase.

Though the sex itself was rarely spectacular, Rebecca loved the lead-up: the banter, the glances, the hand-holding, the cab ride and the very first kiss, which she felt was pure no matter how drunk both of them were. She didn’t see one-night stands as tawdry or cheap. She felt they were perfect, in that she could write the biography of herself that she wanted to (confident, witty, sarcastic, sought after), then they say goodbye before the guy knew her well enough to see how much of it was fiction”

~ Amy Sohn, Prospect Park West

(photos: Benjamin Norman for The Wall Street Journal

tmills:

3. Today’s drawing was supposed to be heartbreak but I went with insufferable instead.

Brilliance.

bbook:

ALMEREYDA: What was your sense of identity as an artist at that point? Were you just biding your time?

SHEPARD: No, I mean, I was writing all the time, so I wasn’t waiting for anything. I think a part of the reason that those early plays were short was that I just kept having these ideas and I’d just go off and write them. I wasn’t trying to write one-act plays—it’s just how the ideas would be expressed. Every condition I was in seemed like it could be a play. Everything seemed like a possible play.

ALMEREYDA: It seemed like it was a time when the whole culture was kind of shaking itself awake.

SHEPARD: It was also a bit scary. I mean, people talk about the 1960s in a nostalgic way, but to me it was terrifying. People were getting assassinated. There was Vietnam. There were race riots. It felt like everything was going to get blown up sky-high. It didn’t feel like flower power. It felt like Armageddon.

SAM SHEPARD