February 2012
17 posts
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad about god, mad...”
– i can’t remember quite how that quote goes, but i’m pretty sure this captures the gist (via opendrawer)
I kind of know I’m being unseemly, by the way. Other people’s depression: not about me. I know. But things are bad around here (CAN YOU TELL?) and talking about books is better than talking about suicide fantasies, right? Anyway, David Foster Wallace is not just a person who killed himself, and that is not all that Infinite Jest means to me, and I would gladly ramble on about the other...
“One fellow psychotically depressed patient Kate Gompert came to know at...”
– I missed DFW’s birthday, I know. I am making up for it today.
When I read Infinite Jest this summer, I was as close to suicide as I have ever been. (I am not that close now, but for awhile I couldn’t remember what it felt like, and now I do, and I do not welcome that knowledge.) I...
“Never love anyone who treats you like you’re ordinary.”
– Oscar Wilde (via beatboxgoesthump)
truer words, &c.
(though really, i should add that i don’t think one should be embarrassed to love someone who doesn’t appreciate you—if anything, i think it demonstrates an enviable capacity for wonder, which ought to be celebrated. it’s just that it hurts,...
“Bliss—a-second-by-second joy and gratitude at the gift of being alive,...”
– from this article: David Foster Wallace’s struggle to surpass Infinite Jest : The New Yorker
David Foster Wallace’s notes on the premise of his last book, The Pale King
(via stef-lee)
Aside from my patent overuse of “w/r/t” I really, really try not to get all “So, I read David Foster Wallace...
“He’s quite as nervously broken down as I am, but it manifests itself in...”
– F. Scott Fitzgerald on Ernest Hemingway (via pulsifers)
Watchchampagnecandy:
relevant:
I’ve played dumb when I knew better
Tried too hard just to be clever
I know honest thieves I call family
I’ve seen America with no clothes on but
I don’t wanna be a cheerleader no more
I have a phantom message. If you messaged me, send it again? Also message me if you have advice for how to deal with overwhelming nervous energy that makes you pick at your skin and totally destroys your ability to be a functional student who has an attention span and reads things. I seriously had forgotten how crazy I am when things get bad. It is kind of funny! But terrible.
so tired of
crippling food-related guilt fuckability as a standard of personal value being too nervous and distracted to read insomnia generally caring about things no reasonable person should care about
bad writer/bad person
I really can’t tell the difference, in my own writing, between arresting honesty and sheer self-indulgence.
1 tag
Consciously deciding to post writing that embarrasses me, by the way. Just because.
I sing Video Games for the fourteen-year-old girl... →
Yes, we are all tired of hearing about Lana Del Rey. But there is something happening here, for me: this naked, unembarrassed fantasy of what it’s like to be a Sexy Young Girl, it just gets more compelling as it gets more obviously fake.
The comparison to Angelo Badalamenti’s music in Twin Peaks: I can hear it. I can hear Air, too, which makes me think of the Virgin Suicides, which is...