Jabwock

“Why is it that when you awake to the world of realities you nearly always feel, sometimes very vividly, that the vanished dream has carried with it some enigma which you have failed to solve?”

—   Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Idiot.  (via wordsnquotes)

(Source: wordsnquotes, via dostoyevsky)

A Short Story On

Like when the world was new to him and he was new to it too and he felt the technology the men the tools the detectives they all have a great deal of and nothing can stand in their way. That governments do their job they are big they are in power they have police and armies and weapons and tools and lots of stuff that can be used to, sure, there were always a few exceptions; dead women here, teens hung on trees there, but the rest is under.

Like sinking in black dark oceans where he can’t see a thing with the feeling of moving all the time but because the depth is endless there is no.

Like the great war, like when he discovered that 100 years later they were bickering over who when how.

Like the volcanoes of civil wars.

Like when he met Adelaide; deaths, kidnappings, and the animals in the zoo and they don’t know why or how it got out of.

Like the time when he thought Adults don’t (and can’t) run, why should they?

Like dreams, like talking in your sleep without.

Like that insect that hisses in your ear and will not stop and you have no.

30 years of life now and, for him, growing up was the process that allowed him to see it all spiraling out of, that no one has any, life is not under, governments do not have, adults are losing.

“My brother asked the birds to forgive him; that sounds senseless, but it is right; for all is like an ocean, all is flowing and blending; a touch in one place sets up movement at the other end of the earth. It may be senseless to beg forgiveness of the birds, but birds would be happier at your side — a little happier, anyway — and children and all animals, if you were nobler than you are now. It’s all like an ocean, I tell you. Then you would pray to the birds too, consumed by an all-embracing love, in a sort of transport, and pray that they too will forgive you your sin. Treasure this ecstasy, however senseless it may seem to men.”

—   
The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoyevsky.
[Book VI “The Russian Monk”, Chapter 3, Conversations and Exhortations of Father Zossima, (f) Of Masters and Servants, and of whether it is possible for them to be Brothers in the Spirit.]

(via lacalaveracatrina)

(Source: ebooks.adelaide.edu.au, via dostoyevsky)

abstiegundzerfall:

Sculpting In Time (The Beginning), Andrei Tarkovsky

(via enigmaland)

“There are two ways to life: one is the regular, direct and good way; the other is bad, it leads through death, and that is the way of genius.”

—   Hans Castorp in The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann (via teachmetomeetmydesires)

(Source: ourblogtoadmire, via enigmaland)

"I went down among the dust and pollen

To the old stone fountain in the morning after dawn

Underneath were all these pennies fallen from the hands of children

They were there and then they were gone

And I wonder what became of them

In the morning waking up to terrible sunlight

All diffuse like skin abuse the sun is half it’s size

When you talk you hardly even look in my eye

In the doorway holding every letter that I wrote

In the driveway pulling away putting on your coat

In the ocean washing off my name from your throat

nyrbclassics:

The Unknown Masterpiece and Gambara by Honoré de Balzac (trans. Richard Howard) and iced tea. Book bought at Cellar Books in Chicago.
Balzac doesn’t discuss coffee much in either novella in this book but he must be considered a patron saint of the Classics and Coffee Club. In “The Pleasures and Pains of Coffee" he gives some advice:

I have discovered a horrible, rather brutal method [of consuming coffee] that I recommend only to men of excessive vigor, men with thick black hair and skin covered with liver spots, men with big square hands and legs shaped like bowling pins. It is a question of using finely pulverized, dense coffee, cold and anhydrous, consumed on an empty stomach. This coffee falls into your stomach, a sack whose velvety interior is lined with tapestries of suckers and papillae. The coffee finds nothing else in the sack, and so it attacks these delicate and voluptuous linings; it acts like a food and demands digestive juices; it wrings and twists the stomach for these juices, appealing as a pythoness appeals to her god; it brutalizes these beautiful stomach linings as a wagon master abuses ponies; the plexus becomes inflamed; sparks shoot all the way up to the brain. From that moment on, everything becomes agitated. Ideas quick-march into motion like battalions of a grand army to its legendary fighting ground, and the battle rages. Memories charge in, bright flags on high; the cavalry of metaphor deploys with a magnificent gallop; the artillery of logic rushes up with clattering wagons and cartridges; on imagination’s orders, sharpshooters sight and fire; forms and shapes and characters rear up; the paper is spread with ink - for the nightly labor begins and ends with torrents of this black water, as a battle opens and concludes with black powder.
(translated by Robert Onopa)

Read the rest of the essay to find out what happened when a friend of Balzac’s with fine, blond hair followed his advice.
Do you have a picture of one of our books with coffee or tea (finely pulverized and dense)? Send it to this address and we’ll post them here (making you an honorary member of the Classics and Coffee Club).

nyrbclassics:

The Unknown Masterpiece and Gambara by Honoré de Balzac (trans. Richard Howard) and iced tea. Book bought at Cellar Books in Chicago.

Balzac doesn’t discuss coffee much in either novella in this book but he must be considered a patron saint of the Classics and Coffee Club. In “The Pleasures and Pains of Coffee" he gives some advice:

I have discovered a horrible, rather brutal method [of consuming coffee] that I recommend only to men of excessive vigor, men with thick black hair and skin covered with liver spots, men with big square hands and legs shaped like bowling pins. It is a question of using finely pulverized, dense coffee, cold and anhydrous, consumed on an empty stomach. This coffee falls into your stomach, a sack whose velvety interior is lined with tapestries of suckers and papillae. The coffee finds nothing else in the sack, and so it attacks these delicate and voluptuous linings; it acts like a food and demands digestive juices; it wrings and twists the stomach for these juices, appealing as a pythoness appeals to her god; it brutalizes these beautiful stomach linings as a wagon master abuses ponies; the plexus becomes inflamed; sparks shoot all the way up to the brain. From that moment on, everything becomes agitated. Ideas quick-march into motion like battalions of a grand army to its legendary fighting ground, and the battle rages. Memories charge in, bright flags on high; the cavalry of metaphor deploys with a magnificent gallop; the artillery of logic rushes up with clattering wagons and cartridges; on imagination’s orders, sharpshooters sight and fire; forms and shapes and characters rear up; the paper is spread with ink - for the nightly labor begins and ends with torrents of this black water, as a battle opens and concludes with black powder.

(translated by Robert Onopa)

Read the rest of the essay to find out what happened when a friend of Balzac’s with fine, blond hair followed his advice.

Do you have a picture of one of our books with coffee or tea (finely pulverized and dense)? Send it to this address and we’ll post them here (making you an honorary member of the Classics and Coffee Club).

…and then it suddenly occurred to me that “Gravity” is simply the natural evolution of Major Kong’s ride.

“I suffer for all who were tortured, shot, or starved to death, whether they are killed by Hitler or on Stalin’s orders. I feel eternal pain for each of the victims. My symphonies are tombstones.”

—   Dmitri Shostakovich (via supernatchan)

(Source: 1musicforall, via anotherpianist)

dtysen:

At some point in his magnificent, all-encompassing career, Leonardo Da Vinci drew a whole page of cats.

dtysen:

At some point in his magnificent, all-encompassing career, Leonardo Da Vinci drew a whole page of cats.

(Source: dtysen-etc, via enigmaland)