“Happiness is a byproduct of function, purpose, and conflict; those who seek happiness for itself seek victory without war.”
— William S. Burroughs
(Source: verlaineandrimbaud)
“My worst fault, like almost everything in me, springs from childhood. For I am still the victim of those unhealthy rites which make children obsessive, so that they arrange their plates in a certain way at meals and only step over certain grooves in the pavement. In the midst of work, here are these symptoms gripping me, forcing me to resist what is driving me, involving me in strange halting writing, preventing me from saying what I want to say.
That is why my style often assumes an air of its own which I loathe, or else suddenly drops it. Inward cramps which reproduce those nervous peculiarities to which childhood abandons itself in secret and by which it believes it can exorcise fate. Even now as I am explaining them, I experience them. I try to conquer them. I stumble against them, I get bogged down in them, I lose myself in them. I should like to break the spell. My obsession gets the better of me. — I am a man made invisible by fables and monstrously visible on account of this.”
— The Difficulty of Being Jean Cocteau
(Source: napoleonicrevival)
During the interview I decided to ask him: ‘if the house caught fire right now, and you could only take one thing with you, what would you choose?’
Cocteau said: ‘I’d take the fire.’”
An evening with an old friend, one from 20 years back. Kept the poor sod company as he’s recovering from throat illness and couldn’t utter a word out loud. Watched De Niro films and took a long stroll in our peaceful green childhood surroundings, I rambled on and we cherished the better times. Felt absurd. Felt very old.
Late after midnight got a sudden invitation out to town from a friendly guitar man I met at the group’s local jam night some time ago. Headed downtown in warm mellow summer night’s breeze, there were strange pressuring thunder vibes wallowing in the air, roaring sky. Met the guitarist’s pals in a messy noisy pub, folks were all dressed like it was the 70s and Led Zeppelin showed the way.
Man Ray, Untitled (Self Portrait with Pipe, Paris), 1921.
(Source: fuckyeahfranzkafka)
