into: art, cats, coffee, education, feminism, intelligent/attractive men, literature, music, politics, science, television, travel, wit
occasionally, I try to write.
ג ז י
Latin American author Gabriel Garcia Marquez, who won the Nobel Prize in literature in 1982, died Thursday. He was 87. Garcia Marquez, the master of a style known as magic realism, was and remains Latin America’s best-known writer.
His novels were filled with miraculous and enchanting events and characters; love and madness; wars, politics, dreams and death. And everything he had written, Garcia Marquez once said, he knew or heard before he was 8 years old.
Chilean novelist Ariel Dorfman says Marquez’s Nobel Prize acceptance speech was one of the author’s most important messages to the world.
"Garcia Marquez is speaking about all the people who are marginal to history, who have not had a voice," Dorfman says. "He gives a voice to all those who died. He gives a voice to all those who are not born yet. He gives a voice to Latin America."
Read our full appreciation here.
Image via See Colombia
Really a sad loss. He’s on my to-read-more-than-just-the-occasional-excerpt-on-Tumblr list.
The Golden Gate Bridge, San Francisco / open to pedestrian traffic only, during its opening in May 1937 (top) and on its 50th anniversary in May 1987 (bottom).
In 1987, the weight of the 300,000 people that crossed the bridge caused it to sag by 5 feet.
My dad and I were watching it live on TV and he had to assure me that the bridge wouldn’t break or collapse.
You’re as constant as that last soggy corn flake at the bottom of the bowl of milk, the sunk ship that keeps giving the spoon the slip. This metaphor makes me the spoon, the scratched silver, the inverted picture on the concave, the not-quite-right: not even able to hold on to a damn corn flake.
More apt perhaps to call me a ship that can’t find shore than a spoon that’s lost its soggy cereal, but it’s too cliche to call you my lighthouse although it’s true that you’re slipping in and out, more often off than not and we both suck at believing in love unless we’re lit, which is to say drunk, and even then we never shirk the shame of leaving the lights on and never too gone not to be quiet, the mast struck, a nicer way of pretending its more than a drunk fuck.
You have the silent intensity of the ocean, the salty pleasure of contact, the swell and sinking fear. You have the bad one-liners ready to interrupt what might otherwise be confused as romantic: “No one ever taught ya how to avoid all this sand in the movies!”
As follows the random arrival of the glow-in-the-dark plankton that only lights up the shore once a year, when I stumble upon you at midnight I’m mystified, moonlit bodies appearing as though carved in Apollonian marble — but about as meaningless, ultimately, as a love poem that starts with my hungover inability to finish breakfast and comparing a lover to a soggy corn flake.
gpoy gpoy gpoy
current emotional state of affairs in musical form
Your limousines get stuck in traffic
And we all know you’re made of plastic
You may seem like something classic
Your cheap sunglasses
And they’ll see right through you
I love when my iPhone’s shuffle mode brings free songs I downloaded from iTunes a long time ago to my attention
Study for “Les poseuses” - Georges Seurat
one of the poem’s we discussed in my English class today:
"Standing Female Nude" (1985)
by: Carol Ann Duffy
Six hours like this for a few francs.
Belly nipple arse in the window light,
he drains the color from me. Further to the right,
Madame. And do try to be still.
I shall be represented analytically and hung
in great museums. The bourgeoisie will coo
at such an image of a river-whore. They call it Art.
Maybe. He is concerned with volume, space.
I with the next meal. You’re getting thin,
Madame, this is not good. My breasts hang
slightly low, the studio is cold. In the tea-leaves
I can see the Queen of England gazing
on my shape. Magnificent, she murmurs,
moving on. It makes me laugh. His name
is Georges. They tell me he’s a genius.
There are times he does not concentrate
and stiffens for my warmth.
He possesses me on canvas as he dips the brush
repeatedly into the paint. Little man,
you’ve not the money for the arts I sell.
Both poor, we make our living how we can.
I ask him Why do you do this? Because
I have to. There’s no choice. Don’t talk.
My smile confuses him. These artists
take themselves too seriously. At night I fill myself
with wine and dance around the bars. When it’s finished
he shows me proudly, lights a cigarette. I say
Twelve francs and get my shawl. It does not look like me.