in someone else’s dream: In images, words & sounds

[Lynda Barry’s Tumblr (via Austin Kleon)]

[Καινούργιος Tom Waits στις 25 Οκτωβρίου (via Self-Titled)]

Now I am going on 88. My wife is 85 and I’m only wishing for another 5 or 6 years of life. This is all we want. We don’t want to live much longer. As a matter of fact, I always say to my wife, I wish I could reach 94. This is the aim of my existence. I’d like to see my grandson earn a living and my granddaughter get married. We want them to be happy the way we were.

—Moses Rubenstein, Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn.

[Lauren Fleishman, Love Ever After (via Don’t touch my Moleskine)]

[Το Κουρδιστό Πουλί του Murakami έγινε θεατρική παράσταση (σάιτ, pics | κριτική)]

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Yes, I was very timid because when I was young I thought of myself as a poet. So I thought, “If I write a story, everybody will know I’m an outsider, that I am intruding in forbidden ground.” Then I had an accident. You can feel the scar. If you touch my head here, you will see. Feel all those mountains, bumps? Then I spent a fortnight in a hospital. I had nightmares and sleeplessness—insomnia. After that they told me that I had been in danger, well, of dying, that it was really a wonderful thing that the operation had been successful. I began to fear for my mental integrity—I said, “Maybe I can’t write anymore.” Then my life would have been practically over because literature is very important to me. Not because I think my own stuff particularly good, but because I know that I can’t get along without writing. If I don’t write, I feel, well, a kind of remorse, no? Then I thought I would try my hand at writing an article or a poem. But I thought, “I have written hundreds of articles and poems. If I can’t do it, then I’ll know at once that I am done for, that everything is over with me.” So I thought I’d try my hand at something I hadn't done: If I couldn’t do it, there would be nothing strange about it because why should I write short stories? It would prepare me for the final overwhelming blow: knowing that I was at the end of my tether. I wrote a story called, let me see, I think, “Hombre de la esquina rosada,” and everyone enjoyed it very much. It was a great relief to me. If it hadn’t been for that particular knock on the head I got, perhaps I would never have written short stories.

[O Borges, που γεννήθηκε σαν σήμερα το 1899, για το διστακτικό του ξεκίνημα στα διηγήματα]

[Από το ημερολόγιο της Frida Kahlo - pic]

Charles Baxter once found what he called “the last appeal” in a scene from Sherwood Anderson, a woman running naked in the rain, begging attention from an old deaf man. “Her body,” he writes, “her last semiotic appeal, or vulnerability, or precious secret—it’s all of these things, but it will not be reduced to one meaning—carries the burden of her longing, and becomes the record of erasure.”

Frida’s corsets hardened around unspeakable longing. They still frame an invisible woman, still naked in her want, still calling to deaf men in the rain. I find them beautiful. She would have given anything, perhaps, to have a body that rendered them irrelevant.

[Leslie Jamison, Frida’s Corsets]

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Wallace isn’t responsible for his imitators, much less for the stylized mess that is Gen-X-and-Y Internet syntax. The devices can be traced back to him, though, if indirectly; they were filtered through and popularized by Dave Eggers’s literary magazine and publishing empire, McSweeney’s, and Eggers’s own novels and memoirs, all of which borrowed not only Wallace’s tics but also his championing of post-ironic sincerity and his attempts to ward off criticism by embedding all possible criticisms within the writing itself. “There is no overwhelming need to read the preface,” Eggers wrote in “A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius”; in fact, after “the first three or four chapters” the book “is kind of uneven.”

[Η Maud Newton για την επιρροή του Wallace στη γλώσσα των μπλόγκερ και όχι μόνο]