<ahda: quotations>

Now, thi this iz this; juss as thi deeper u go in2 thi kript thi hazier & more corosiv doun thare things get, so thi longir it is since u died thi moar kinda disoshiated u get from realty, &, eventule, evin if u want 2 stay in sum kinda hoomin form, u juss cant support that sort ov complexity.

Irresponsibility is the part of pleasure of all art; it is the part the schools cannot recognize.

We work in the dark--we do what we can--we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art.

Art is on the side of the oppressed. Think before you shudder at the simplistic dictum and its heretical definition of the freedom of art. For if art is freedom of the spirit, how can it exist within the oppressors?

The lymph shrank in his body like water in a puddle under a scorching sun. As his joints were coming apart, came apart, one after another, he gazed at bits of himself, spread out on the grass, like alien and incongruous objects. Suddenly he realized that all that was left of him was his heart. Beating, begrimed. As he struggled to see himself in that scrap of flesh, he realized he no longer recognized himself. He shrieked like a lunatic: "Self! Self, Atman!" Impassive, the waters heard him. Slowly they turned toward PrajApati as though to some relative fallen upon hard times. They gave him back his torso, so that it might once again protect his heart. Then they offered up a sacrificial ceremony to him, the agnihotra. It might turn out useful, someday, they said--if PrajApati should ever wish to reassemble himself in his entirety.

"In shuttered rooms let others grieve,/ And coffin thought in speech of lead;/ I'll tie my heart upon my sleeve:/ It is the Badge of Men," he said.

Young actors, fear your admirers! You may pay them attentions, but do not talk with them of art. Learn in time, from your very first steps, to understand and love the cruel truth about yourselves. Find out who can tell you that truth. And talk of your art only with those who can tell you the truth.

He who permits himself to tell a lie once, finds it much easier to do it a second and third time, till at length it becomes habitual; he tells lies without attending to it, and truths without the world's believing him. This falsehood of the tongue leads to that of the heart, and in time depraves all its good dispositions.

My heart is like a singing bird/ Whose nest is in a watered shoot;/ My heart is like an apple-tree/ Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;/ My heart is like a rainbow shell/ That paddles in a halcyon sea;/ My heart is gladder than all these/ Because my love is come to me.

Everything I learned about love, I learned from the movies. The reality is because I was not shown affection, I escaped into an alternate universe, and it came right out of the movies. Love for me is defined almost exclusively in terms of romantic love as defined by the films of my childhood.

 

<who said what & when>

- Iain M Banks, Feersum Endjinn (1994)

- Pauline Kael, Going Steady (1968)

- Henry James, "The Middle Years" (1893)

- Nadine Gordimer, The Tanner Lectures on Human Values, ed. by Sterling M. McMurrin (1985)

- Roberto Calasso, Ka: Stories of the Mind and Gods of India (1999)

- John Davidson, "The Badge of Men" (1891)

- Konstantin Stanislavsky, My Life in Art (1924, 1926, 2008)

- Thomas Jefferson, Letter to Peter Carr (1785)

- Christina Rossetti, "A Birthday" (1862)

- Hugh Hefner, LA Times (2009)

*

<next>