Love in the Afternoon (1972)
passing out pieces [single]
i was waiting for the guitar solo, but this album art is chill
only people for me are the mad ones, ones who are mad to live. mad to survive. mad eat rats. mad live in cave. mad worship sun.mad kill bandits - kerouac
March 10, 1932 by E.C. Segar.
One of the oldest and most universal moral precepts is the Golden Rule: Treat others as you want them to treat you. That mandate shows up in Confucianism and in the Code of Hammurabi. It was reiterated by Seneca and by the Buddha. It appears in the Bible, as the command to love thy neighbor as thyself. It might possibly have been taught to more people than any other notion in history.
It is also, on reflection, a little weird. For a guideline about how to treat others, the Golden Rule is strikingly egocentric. It does not urge us to consult our neighbors about their needs; it asks us only to generalize from ourselves—to imagine, in essence, that everyone’s idea of desirable treatment matches our own. As such, it makes a curiously narrow demand on our imagination, and, accordingly, on our behavior… .
Middlemarch breaks with this tradition. Morality does not start with the self, Eliot insists; it starts when we set the self aside. “Will not a tiny speck very close to our vision blot out the glory of the world?” she asks. And then: “I know no speck so troublesome as self.” What a killer line, and what a memorable image. We dwell in moral myopia; literally and figuratively, we are too close to ourselves.
[George] Eliot never stops resisting the autocracy of the self; what Copernicus was to geocentricity, she is to egocentricity.
|—||New York magazine’s Kathryn Schulz, one of the finest voices in literary criticism today, on what makes Middlemarch so special – a superb read.|
6. WHAT ‘LYNCHIAN’ MEANS AND WHY IT’S IMPORTANT
AN ACADEMIC DEFINITION of Lynchian might be that the term “refers to a particular kind of irony where the very macabre and the very mundane combine in such a way as to reveal the former’s perpetual containment within the latter.” But like postmodern or pornographic, Lynchian is one of those Porter Stewart-type words that’s ultimately definable only ostensively-i.e., we know it when we see it…
…For me, Lynch’s movies’ deconstruction of this weird irony of the banal has affected the way I see and organize the world. I’ve noted since 1986 (when Blue Velvet was released) that a good 65 percent of the people in metropolitan bus terminals between the hours of midnight and 6 A.M. tend to qualify as Lynchian figures-grotesque, enfeebled, flamboyantly unappealing, freighted with a woe out of all proportion to evident circumstances … a class of public-place humans I’ve privately classed, via Lynch, as “insistently fucked up.” Or, e.g. we’ve all seen people assume sudden and grotesque facial expressions-like when receiving shocking news, or biting into something that turns out to be foul, or around small kids for no particular reason other than to be weird-but I’ve determined that a sudden grotesque facial expression won’t qualify as a really Lynchian facial expression unless the expression is held for several moments longer than the circumstances could even possibly warrant, until it starts to signify about seventeen different things at once.
(Premiere Magazine, September 1996)
me: YOU ARE A BURNING HOUSE I WANT TO LIVE IN
This living-with-myself is more than consciousness, more than the self-awareness that accompanies me in whatever I do and in whichever state I am. To be with myself and to judge by myself is articulated and actualized in the processes of thought, and every thought process is an activity in which I speak with myself about whatever happens to concern me. The mode of existence present in this silent dialogue with myself, I shall now call, solitude. Hence, solitude is more than, and different from, other modes of being alone, particularly and most importantly loneliness and isolation.
Solitude means that though alone, I am together with somebody (myself, that is). It means that I am two-in-one, whereas loneliness as well as isolation do not know this kind of schism, this inner dichotomy in which I can ask questions of myself and receive answers. Solitude and its corresponding activity, which is thinking, can be interrupted either by somebody else addressing me or, like every other activity, by doing something else, or by sheer exhaustion. In any of these cases, the two that I was in thought become one again. If somebody addresses me, I must now talk to him, and not to myself, and in talking to him, I change. I become one, possessing of course self-awareness, that is, consciousness, but no longer fully and articulately in possession of myself. If I am addressed by one person only and if, as sometimes happens, we begin to talk in the form of dialogue about the very same things either one of us had been concerned about while still in solitude, then it is as if I now address another self. And this other self, allos authos, was rightly defined by Aristotle as the friend. If, on the other hand, my thought process in solitude stops for some reason, I also become one again. Because this one who I am is without company, I may reach out for the company of others—people, books, music—and if they fail me or if I am unable to establish contact with them, I am overcome by boredom and loneliness. For this I do not have to be alone: I can be very bored and lonely in the midst of a crowd, but not in actual solitude, that is, in my own company, or together with a friend, in the sense of another self. This is why it is much harder to bear being alone in a crowd than in solitude—as Meister Eckhart once remarked.
|—||Hannah Arendt, Responsibility and Judgement|
|—||Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Idiot.|
|—||Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet|
|—||Oscar Hijuelos, Mr. Ives’ Christmas|