A mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge.
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I never cease to get chills from this.
"You’re remembered…DEAD! You’re remembered…DEAD!"
A true artist and rocker.
Hamadryas baboons at the Emmen Zoo in Emmen, Netherlands, have been behaving strangely. They have not been eating and are sitting close together in a small periferic area of their island. A few years back the same group of baboons showed similar unexplicable behavior of mass apathy. Picture: Vincent Jannink/AFP/Getty Images
I must be a baboon. Explains all the hair, at least.
Today I found new dwellings inside one of the humans favorite drinking devices. The humans found me though, and promptly removed me from my new home. I fear I may never find comfort with these giants watching my every move. I will debate pooping in protest as I contemplate my eventual escape.
Writing advice from James Merrill: “You hardly ever need to state your feelings. The point is to feel and keep the eyes open. Then what you feel is expressed, is mimed back at you by the scene. A room, a landscape.”
For more of this morning’s roundup, click here.
Pictured: Anthony Hecht (far left), James Merrill, Richard Wilbur and others travel to the Fiftieth Anniversary celebration of the Academy of American Poets at the Library of Congress.
Ben de la Creme as Dame Maggie SmithWell, Ruple - Ruple is it? - I understood virtually none of the words that left your lips moments ago. But I did hear the term ”Twitter”, and I assume it’s some sort of a songbird?
… because I sometimes have moments of such despair, such despair… Because in those moments I start to think that I will never be capable of beginning to live a real life; because I have already begun to think that I have lost all sense of proportion, all sense of the real and the actual; because, what is more, I have cursed myself; because my nights of fantasy are followed by hideous moments of sobering! And all the time one hears the human crowd swirling and thundering around one in the whirlwind of life, one hears, one sees how people live—that they live in reality, that for them life is not something forbidden, that their lives are not scattered for the winds like dreams or visions but are forever in the process of renewal, forever young, and that no two moments in them are ever the same; while how dreary and monotonous to the point of being vulgar is timorous fantasy, the slave of shadow, of the idea, the slave of the first cloud that covers the sun…
- Fyodor Dostoyevsky, White Nights (via kurtlac)
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