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The best way to know God is to love many things....Vincent Van Gogh.

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Great Writing

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Father, forgive me wherever you are, but this world has brought one vile abomination after another down on the heads of the gentle, and I'll not live to see the meek inherit anything. The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingslover
  
 Someone must have slandered Josef K., for one morning, without having done anything truly wrong, he was arrested. Franz Kafka, The Trial (1925; trans. Breon Mitchell)

You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino's new novel, If on a winter's night a traveler. Italo Calvino, If on a winter's night a traveler (1979; trans. William Weaver)

 
 The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new. Samuel Beckett, Murphy (1938)

 
If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. - J. D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye (1951)

Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo. - James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916)

This is the saddest story I have ever heard. - Ford Madox Ford, The Good Soldier (1915)

 
I wish either my father or my mother, or indeed both of them, as they were in duty both equally bound to it, had minded what they were about when they begot me; had they duly considered how much depended upon what they were then doing; that not only the production of a rational Being was concerned in it, but that possibly the happy formation and temperature of his body, perhaps his genius and the very cast of his mind and, for aught they knew to the contrary, even the fortunes of his whole house might take their turn from the humours and dispositions which were then uppermost: Had they duly weighed and considered all this, and proceeded accordingly, I am verily persuaded I should have made a quite different figure in the world, from that, in which the reader is likely to see me. - Laurence Sterne, Tristram Shandy

 
"Within seconds of that thought, the train entered Washington, where she was to come to her end more than sixty-eight years later, a mother to seven living and two dead, a grandmother to twenty-one living and three dead, a great-grandmother to twelve, a great-great grandmother to twins." Edward P. Jones “Tapestry," from All Aunt Hagar's Children

"That cheerful eye, under the influence of slavery, soon became red with rage; that voice, made of sweet accord, changed to one of harsh and horrid discord; and tht angelic face gave place to that of a demon." Fredrik Douglas Narrative of the life of Fredrik Douglass


"He betroths Himself to us, we take His name, and then we go about our lives looking for love, attention, and affection from every source under the sun exceot from the Son of God, the Lover of our souls. Oh, how Jesus longs for us to acknowledge Him, to introduce Him to our friends, to withdraw to be alone with Him, to cling to Him for our identity, to gaze longingly into His eyes, to love Him with all our heart and soul."  Every Young Woman's Battle-pg. 210

“He Drifted off into sleep and Janie looked down on him and felt a self-crushing love. So her soul crawled out from its hiding place." Zora Neale Hurston

"Do I want to live? What kind of living will it be when you- oh, God! Would you like to live with your soul in the grave?!" Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte, page 139

"She was the little cinder girl, living in the shadows of an inaccessible palace, in love with the unseen prince, who would one day hear her music." Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi, page 31

"In the moment when I truly understand my enemy, understand him well enough to defeat him, then in that very moment I also love him. I think it's impossible to really understand somebody, what they want, what they believe, and not love them the way they love themselves. And then, in that very moment when I love them-
  "You beat them." Ender-Valentine Pg. 238

"...I run after her, not really giving chase. I'm running because I can, because I must. Because I want to see how far I can go before I have to stop." : Libba Bray, "A Great and Terrible Beauty"


"That's something you can say because your stomach is full," Mansur yells.” Asne Seierstad, The Bookseller of Kabul, page 237-238

"I can still see the hole like it was yesterday, and it was. Life is a perpetual yesterday for us" The Lovely Bones by: Alice Sebold

"The first time my husband hit me i was ninteen years old. One sentence and I'm lost. One sentence and i can hear his voice in my head, that butterscotch-syrup voice that made goose bumps rise on my arms when i was young, that turned all of my skin warm and alive with a silibant S, the drawling vowels, its shocking fricatives. It awlays sounded like a whisper, the way he talked, the intimacy of it, the words seemed to go into your guts, your head, your heart. "Jeez, Bob," one of the guys would say, "you should have been a radio announcer. You should have done those voice over things for commercials." It was like a genie, wafting purple and smokey from the lamp, Bobby's voice, or perfume when you took the glass stopper out of the bottle." Black and Blue, pg. 1

"But one man trying to sponge Seabiscuit would have about as much chance as a kindergarten kid trying to jimmy his way into the United States mint with a fountain pen." Laura Hillenbrand. Seabiscuit

"What if you slept? And what if, in your sleep. you dreamed? And what if, in your dream, you went to Heaven and plucked a strange and beautiful flower? And what if, when you awoke, you held the flower in your hand? Ah, what then?"  Jostein Gaarder Sophie's World

"But when these basic needs have been satisfied will there still be something that everybody needs? Philosophers think so. They believe that man cannot live by bread alone. Of course everyone needs food. And everyone needs love and care. But there is something else apart from that which everyone needs, and that is to figure out who we are and why we are here." Joistein Gaarder  Sophie's World

"Out of the blackness of sleep a dream formed." Carson McCullers- The heart is a lonely hunter

"He sits down across from me and drawls, 'Man, they got mosquitoes 'round this place big enough to rape a chicken.' Ladies and Gentlemen, Richard from Texas has arrived."  Elizabeth Gilbert from Eat Pray Love - page 138

“But she couldn't not look at the blood matting Simon's brown hair, his torn throat, the gashes along his dangling wrists.”  City of Ashes-Cassandra Clare

"Such a simple concept; yet so true: that which we manifest is before us; we are the creators of our own destiny. Be it through intention or ignorance, our successes and our failures have been brought on by none other than ourselves." Garth Stein, from The Art of Racing in the Rain, pg. 43


"Closing Sohrab's door, I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded, not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night."  Khaled Hosseini The Kite Runner, pg 359


"With a grin and a giggle, a hug and a whistle, we'd slap our knees and Mama would say: 'Bless the world it feels like a tip-tapping song-singing finger-snapping kind of day. Let's celebrate!' And so we did."  Libba Moore, My Mama had a Dancing Heart, p.2


There ought to be a whole separate language, she thought, for words that are truer than other words. For perfect, absolute truth. It was the purest fact of her life. She didn't understand him, and she never would. Anne Tyler Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant, p.10


To Whom It May Concern: I killed DeWayne Lockhart, and this is how it happened." Sherry Garland, Letters From the Mountain, p.1


"The man in black fled across the desert and the gunslinger followed." Stephen King, The Dark Tower: The Gunslinger


"It had been some months since I laid eyes on Mom, and when she looked up, I was overcome wih panic that she'd see me and call out my name, and that someone on the way to the same party would spot us togather and Mom would introduce herself and my secret would be out."-The Glass Castle Jeannette Walls

"Clare: Its hard being left behind. I wait for Henry, not knowing where he is, wondering if he's okay. It's hard to be the one who stays." The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger, Prolouge.


"When you kill a man, you steal a life," Baba said. "You steal his wife's right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone's right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness." The Kite Runner, page 18

"When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I survived at all. It was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood." Frank McCourt, Angela's Ashes


"My watch read 1:17p.m.All told, I'd spent less than five minutes at the roof of the world." Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer


"9 a.m., September 27, 1996. Someone knocks violently on our door. My whole family has been on edge since dawn, and now we all start in alarm. My father jumps up to see who it is while my mother looks on anxiously, haggard with exhaustion after a sleepless night. None of us got any sleep.." My Forbidden Face by Latifa-pg.1


My name is Asher Lev, the Asher Lev, about whom you have read in newspapers and magazines, about whom you talk so much at your dinner affairs and cocktail parties, the notorious and legendary Lev of the Brooklyn Crucifix. I am an observant Jew. Yes, of course, observant Jews do not paint crucifixions. As a matter of fact, observant Jews do not paint at all--in the way that I am painting. So strong words are being written and spoken about me, myths are being generated: I am a traitor, an apostate, a self-hater, an inflictor of shame upon my family, my friends, my people; also, I am a mocker of ideas sacred to Christians, a blasphemous manipulator of modes and forms revered by Gentiles for two thousand years. Well, I am none of those things. And yet, in all honesty, I confess that my accusers are not altogether wrong: I am indeed, in some way, all of those things. My name is Asher Lev, pg 1


"Conor Broekhart was born to fly: or more accurately, he was born flying. Though Broekhart's legend is littered with fantastical stories, the tale of his first flight in the summer of 1878 would be the most difficult to believe, had there not been thousands of witnesses. In fact,an account of his birth in a hot air balloon can be read in the archives of the French newspaper Le Petit Journal, available for a small fee at the Bibliotheque Nationale."  Eoin Colfer, Airman, p.1

 

"This story begins within the walls of a castle, with the birth of a mouse. A small mouse. The last mouse born to his parents and the only one of his litter to be born alive." Kate DiCamillo, The Tale of Despereaux, p.1


"There was death at its beginning as there would be death again at its end. Though whether it was some fleeting shadow of this that passed across the girl's dreams and woke her on that least likely of mornings she would never know. All she knew, when she opened her eyes, was that the world was somehow altered." Nicholas Evans, The Horse Whisperer

 

"I'd never given much thought to how I would die -- though I'd had reason enough in the last few months -- but even if I had, I would not have imagined it like this." Stephenie Meyer, Twilight p.1


“Imagine a world so strange it must never have happened. First, picture the forest. I want you to be its conscience, the eyes in the trees. The trees are columns of slick, brindled bark like muscular animals overgrown beyond all reason...A single-file army of ants biting a mammoth tree into uniform grains and hauling it down to the dark for their ravenous queen...From Margaret Atwood's "Poisonwood Bible" p. 1


"Sometimes a person needs a quiet place. A place to rest your ears from bells ringing and whistles shrieking and grown-ups talking and engines roaring and horns blaring and grown-ups talking and radios playing and grown-ups... Well, even grown-ups need a quiet place sometimes." Dan Anderson, A Quiet Place p.1
"His coming into our classroom that morning was the only new thing. Everything else was the same way it'd always been. The snow coming down. Ms. Johnson looking out the window, then after a moment, nodding. The class cheering because she was going to let us go out into the school yard at lunchtime. It had been that way for days and days. And then, just before the lunch bell rang, he walked into our classroom." Jacqueline Woodson, Feathers, pg.1


"I have never looked into my sister's eyes. I have never bathed alone. I have never stood in the grass at night and raised my arms to a beguiling moon. I've never used an airplane bathroom. Or worn a hat. Or been kissed like that. I've never driven a car. Or slept through the night. Never a private talk. Or solo walk. I've never climbed a tree. Or faded into a crowd. So many things I've never done, but oh, how I've been loved. And, if such things were to be, I'd live a thousand lives as me, to be loved so exponentially," The Girls by Lori Lansens--p.3


"This is a valley of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens, where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air" The Great Gatsby, F.Scott Fitzgerald

 

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The Metamorphosis 
By  
Franz Kafka

    One morning, as Gregor Samsa was waking up from anxious dreams, he discovered that in his bed he had been changed into a monstrous verminous bug. He lay on his armour-hard back and saw, as he lifted his head up a little, his brown, arched abdomen divided up into rigid bow-like sections. From this height the blanket, just about ready to slide off completely, could hardly stay in place. His numerous legs, pitifully thin in comparison to the rest of his circumference, flickered helplessly before his eyes.    
   “What’s happened to me,” he thought. It was no dream. His room, a proper room for a human being, only somewhat too small, lay quietly between the four well-known walls. Above the table, on which an unpacked collection of sample cloth goods was spread out—Samsa was a travelling salesman—hung the picture which he had cut out of an illustrated magazine a little while ago and set in a pretty gilt frame. It was a picture of a woman with a fur hat and a fur boa. She sat erect there, lifting up in the direction of the viewer a solid fur muff into which her entire forearm had disappeared.   

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The Art of H. C. Westermann

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Short Fiction

KARMA FINDS FRANNY GLASS 

 By
 
Eugene McDonald

    

    Speeding out of her building’s garage in the East Seventies and then racing her Lamborghini over the George Washington Bridge, Franny Glass found it amusing that Zooey Salinger considered her an absolute dearest friend.    Actually, Zooey was being too kind with those vastly exaggerated those words on the finely engraved invitation. The truth was, she saw Franny Glass for what Franny was, transparent, shallow, completely self centered and mean. Everyone in the tribe saw her that way, but, in fairness, that was also how they viewed Zooey too, and, if the truth be told, and it seldom was, that was how they saw themselves as well. It is how these people are.
     Compounding Zooey’s intense dislike of her absolute dearest friend Franny Glass, was the awkward fact that Zooey and everyone within their small universe knew that Franny had been sleeping with her husband, Zen Salinger, a partner in Salinger, Sacco & Vanzetti, mergers, acquisitions and promotions a specialty.
     She also knew, again as did everyone else, that it was Franny who had been the defacto cause for Zen’s fatal coronary in flagrante delicto. Of  course, the pending federal indictment and the certain RICO conviction that would follow and then Zen’s mandatory sudden disappearance with the cash in the firm’s escrow accounts, may well have played a role in his unexpected early demise as well. But, for the time being, gossip being what it is, everyone, simply everyone, was blaming Franny for his death.
     What Zooey didn’t know, was that it had been such a dreadful experience for Franny, (Zen Salinger dying at the grand finale, not the sex, which was not in the least grand) that she more or less absolutely sworn off sex with married men for an indeterminate amount of time

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The Lighter Side of Metamorphosis 

a Short Story

by 

Dickie Judd 

 When Jake Skala woke up that morning from easy dreams he never thought he would find himself changed into a wonderful bird. And because of that wonderful dream he lingered in bed longer than he should have and so, Jake Skala was late again. Dashing out of the front door of his comfortable home in suburban Edina he raced to his car which waited expectedly for him on the off white cement of the driveway.
      Jake stopped and took in the morning air and turned to gaze at the Minneapolis skyline not so far off in the distance and say the clear dark outline of the Essex building where he worked and where they were, angrily no doubt, waiting for him, again.  He stopped to pause and think which was one of the primary reasons why Jake Skala was late so often.  He was a man of thought and pauses.
     “You know” he said to himself “If I could fly, I’d be there already”
 

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Doubt thou the stars are fire;

Doubt that the sun doth move;

Doubt truth to be a liar;

But never doubt I love.

Hamlet  Act Two, Scene Two

 

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Explore Creatively

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"From an evolutionary perspective, one of the most striking things about human beings is our long period of immaturity. We have a much longer childhood than any other species any other species. Why make babies so helpless for so long and thus require adults to put so much work and care into keeping their babies alive?
 
"Across the animal kingdom, the intelligence and flexibility of adults are correlated with the immaturity of babies. 'Precocial' species such as chickens rely on highly specific innate capacities adapted to one particular environmental niche, and so they mature quickly. 'Altricial' species (those whose offspring need [long] care and feeding by parents) rely on learning instead. Crows, for instance, can take a new object, such as a piece of wire, and work out how to turn it into a tool, but young crows depend on their parents for much longer than chickens.
 
"A learning strategy has many advantages, but until learning takes place, you are helpless. Evolution solves this problem with a division of labor between babies and adults. Babies get a protected time to learn about their environment, without having to actually do anything. When they grow up, they can use what they have learned to be better at surviving and reproducing-and taking care of the next generation. Fundamentally, babies are designed to learn.
 
"Neuroscientists have started to understand some of the brain mechanisms that allow all this learning to occur. Baby brains are more flexible than adult brains. They have far more connections between neurons, none of them particularly efficient, but over time they prune out unused connections and strengthen useful ones. Baby brains also have a high level of the chemicals that make brains change connections easily.

"The brain region called the prefrontal cortex is distinctive to humans and takes an especially long time to mature. The adult capacities for focus, planning and efficient action that are governed by this brain area depend on the long learning that occurs in childhood. This area's wiring may not be complete until the mid-20s.
 
"The lack of prefrontal control in young children naturally seems like a huge handicap, but it may actually be tremendously helpful for learning. The prefrontal area inhibits irrelevant thoughts or actions. But being uninhibited may help babies and young children to explore freely. There is a trade-off between the ability to explore creatively and learn flexibly, like a child, and the ability to plan and act effectively, like an adult. The very qualities needed to act efficiently-such as swift automatic processing and a highly pruned brain network-may be intrinsically antithetical to the qualities."

Alison Gopnick,  "How Babies Think"
Scientific American   July 2010

 

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"Nothing is as approved as mediocrity, the majority has established it and it fixes it fangs on whatever gets beyond it either way." Pascal

 

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Washington Irving

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     "During the second decade of the nineteenth century, writer Washington Irving developed an acute sense that his native land was no longer the same place it had been just a generation earlier. Irving had conservative and nostalgic sensibilities, and he sought to express some of his amazement at the transformation that had taken place in America by writing his story 'Rip Van Winkle.' Irving had his character Rip awaken from a sleep that had begun before the Revolution and had lasted twenty years. When Rip entered his old village, he immediately felt lost. The buildings, the faces, the names were all strange and incomprehensible. 'The very village was altered - it was larger and more populous,' and idleness, except among the aged, was no longer tolerated. 'The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquility' - a terrifying situation for Rip, who had had 'an insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable labour.' Even the language was strange - 'rights of citizens - elections - members of Congress - liberty ... and other words which were a perfect babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.' When people asked him 'on which side he voted' and 'whether he was
Federal or a Democrat,' Rip could only stare 'in vacant stupidity.'
     " 'Rip Van Winkle' became the most popular of Irving's many stories, for early nineteenth-century Americans could appreciate Rip's bewilderment. Although superficially the political leadership seemed much the same - on the sign at the village inn the face of George Washington had simply replaced that of George III -beneath the surface Rip, like most Americans, knew that 'every thing's changed.' In a few short decades Americans had experienced a remarkable transformation in their society and culture, and, like Rip and his creator, many wondered what had happened and who they really were.
 "Before the Revolution Of 1776 America had been merely a collection of disparate British colonies composed of some two million subjects huddled along a narrow strip of the Atlantic coast - European outposts whose cultural focus was still London, the metropolitan center of the empire. Following the War of 1812 with Great Britain - often called the Second American Revolution - these insignificant provinces had become a single giant continental republic with nearly ten million citizens, many of whom had already spilled into the lands beyond the Appalachian Mountains. The cultural focus of this huge expansive nation was no longer abroad but was instead directed inward at its own boundless possibilities.
     "By 1815 Americans had experienced a transformation in the way they related to one another and in the way they perceived themselves and the world around them. And this transformation took place before industrialization, before urbanization, before railroads, and before any of the technological breakthroughs usually associated with modern social change. In the decades following the Revolution America changed so much and so rapidly that Americans not only became used to change but came to expect it and prize it.
     "The population grew dramatically, doubling every twenty years or so, as it had for several generations, more than twice the rate of growth of any European country. And people were on the move as never before. Americans spread themselves over half a continent at astonishing speeds. Between 1790 and 1820 New York's population quadrupled; Kentucky's multiplied nearly eight times. In a single decade Ohio grew from a virtual wilderness (except, of course, for the presence of the native Indians, whom white Americans scarcely acknowledged) to become more populous than most of the century-old colonies had been at the time of the Revolution. In a single generation Americans occupied more territory than they had occupied during the entire 150 years of the colonial period, and in the process killed or displaced tens of thousands of Indians.
     "Although most Americans in 1815 remained farmers living in rural areas, they had become, especially in the North, one of the most highly commercialized people in the world. They were busy buying and selling not only with the rest of the world but increasingly with one another, everyone, it seemed, trying to realize what Niles' Weekly Register declared 'the almost universal ambition to get forward.' Nowhere in the Western world was business and working for profit more praised and honored."


 Gordon Wood, Empire of Liberty, 2009 by Oxford University Press, Inc.

 

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Of Poems and Poets

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THE PARABOLIC BALLAD

by

Andrei Voznesensky

My life, like a rocket, makes a parabola
flying in darkness, -- no rainbow for traveler.

There once lived an artist, red-haired Gauguin,
he was a bohemian, a former tradesman.
To get to the Louvre
from the lanes of Montmartre
he circled around
as far as Sumatra!

He had to abandon the madness of money,
the filth of the scholars, the snarl of his honey.
The man overcame the terrestrial gravity,
The priests, drinking beer, would laugh at his "vanity":
"A straight line is short, but it is much too simple,
He'd better depict beds of roses for people."

And yet, like a rocket, he flew off with ease
through winds penetrating his coat and his ears.
He didn't fetch up to the Louvre through the door
but, like a parabola,
pierced the floor!

Each gets to the truth with his own parameter
a worm finds a crack, man makes a parabola.

There once lived a girl in the neighboring house.
We studied together, through books we would browse.
Why did I leave,
moved by devilish powers
amidst the equivocal
Georgian stars!

I'm sorry for making that silly parabola,
The shivering shoulders in darkness, why trouble her?...
Your rings in the dark Universe were dramatic,
and like an antenna, straight and elastic.

Meanwhile I'm flying
to land here because
I hear your earthly and shivering calls.

It doesn't come easy with a parabola!..
For wiping prediction, tradition, preamble off
Art, History, Love and юesthetics
Prefer
to take parabolical paths, as it were!

He leaves for Siberia now, on a visit.

.....................................
It isn't so long as parabola, is it?

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 This seemed like a good place for Man as an industrial palace, 1926 poster by Fritz Kahn (German).

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 Wu Guanzhong

"I am getting more serious because I understand life better now. That is perhaps an instinctive response to my understanding of life now, which is fuller, heavier and also darker."

      Wu Guanzhong, whose fusion of Western modernism and traditional Chinese painting made him one of China’s most forward-looking and admired artists, died on Friday in Beijing at age 90. In 1950, Mr. Wu returned to China after three years of study in Paris, where he came under the spell of van Gogh, Utrillo and Modigliani and enthusiastically embraced modernism’s license to experiment. Trained in traditional Chinese ink and brush painting, as well as Western-style oil painting, he went on to develop an artistic hybrid style expressed in landscape views captured on painting trips all over China and beyond. During the Cultural Revolution, Mr. Wu, along with his colleagues and students at the Central Institute of Arts and Crafts in Beijing, was sent to do hard labor in a remote village in Hebei Province, in the northeast. He was forbidden to paint for three years. In 1972, along with other notable artists, he was summoned back from internal exile by Premier Zhou Enlai and commissioned to paint a large mural at the Beijing Hotel.

     He returned to ink and brush painting, which he had studied under Pan Tianshou, in part because of the space constraints of his apartment in Beijing. In 1978 he had his first one-man show, which traveled throughout China. In 1992 the British Museum organized an exhibition of his work, "Wu Guanzhong: A 20th-Century Chinese Painter." Mr. Wu won recognition as one of China’s most original artists and became a darling of Asian and Western collectors. In 2009 his works fetched nearly $40 million at auction. This month his 1974 oil painting "Panoramic View of the Yangtze River" sold for $8.4 million at an auction in Beijing.

 

 

 

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Writers in Black and White

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James Ellroy (Above)

 Anybody who doesn't know that politics is crime has got a few screws loose.

 As a kid, I sensed history going on all around me, but the basic thrust of it didn't move me.

 As critical acclaim and response has built up, every interview I give is a chance to puncture the myth I've created about my work and refine it.

 As much as I transferred my mother to Elizabeth Shore of The Black Dahlia, as much as her dad mutated into an obsession with crime in general, well, I have thought about other things throughout the years.

 Every one of my books is written from the viewpoint of cops, with the exception of my book Killer on the Road, which is written from the viewpoint of a serial killer.

 I am a writer. I could not afford to take 15 months off from my writing career to play detective.

 I am conservative by temperament. I disapprove of criminal activity. I am very solidly and markedly on the side of authority. The truth is I would rather err on the side of too much authority than too little.

 I am the most well-adjusted human being I know. I started out this investigation as a very happy man with a great career. I've got the life people dream about: I am rich, I am famous, I've got a fabulous marriage to an absolutely, spell-bindingly brilliant woman.

 I don't know anybody in the underworld. I make this stuff up. I don't know any criminals.

 I have a very intense marriage.

 I haven't been to a movie in a year and a half.

 I like to be alone so I can write. But focus can hurt you. I don't want to be some stress casualty in early middle age.

I love thinking about American history, thinking about LA history. I love brooding on crime.

 I put on such a good show, the story is outrageous, and people don't want to hear that I'm basically a reasonable human being. As long as it continues to get me print, I'll continue to perform in an exuberant manner.

 I want to see these bad, bad, bad, bad men come to grips with their humanity.

 I was a WASP kid going to a high school that was 99 percent Jewish and I wanted attention and I wanted to make a spectacle of myself because I couldn't stand to be ignored.

 I would like to provoke ambiguous responses in my readers.

I'm clenched down, I'm locked in on it, which is my general approach to life.

 I'm getting a wider circle of fans now. More women, more middle class people.

 I've been tremendously moved by a bunch of odd books. Ross McDonald is very important to me. I love the Lew Archer books.

 My mother and I will continue on some level that I haven't determined yet. I think my mother's a great character, and I have to say that giving my mother to the world has to be the biggest thrill of my writing career.

 Noir is dead for me because historically, I think it's a simple view. I've taken it as far as it can go. I think I've expanded on it a great deal, taken it further than any other American novelist.

 Raymond Chandler once wrote that Dashiell Hammett gave murder back to the people who really committed it.

 Rock and rollers can get you the youth buzz, and younger people are fanatical readers.

 The truth of the matter is, you lose a parent to murder when you're 10 years old, and in fact at the time of the murder you hate your lost parent, my mother in my case.

 When I was a kid, Eisenhower had been President forever, and all of a sudden, everything in the world was all about Jack Kennedy. I was 12, interested in politics; my father was from Massachusetts, had an accent like Kennedy.

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James Joyce (Above)

 A man of genius makes no mistakes; his errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.

A man's errors are his portals of discovery.

A nation is the same people living in the same place.

And then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will yes.

Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.

Christopher Columbus, as everyone knows, is honored by posterity because he was the last to discover America.

He found in the world without as actual what was in his world within as possible.

 I am tomorrow, or some future day, what I establish today. I am today what I established yesterday or some previous day.

 I fear those big words which make us so unhappy.

 I think a child should be allowed to take his father's or mother's name at will on coming of age. Paternity is a legal fiction.

 I've put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant, and that's the only way of insuring one's immortality.

 If Ireland is to become a new Ireland she must first become European.

 Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow.

 Ireland sober is Ireland stiff.

 Irresponsibility is part of the pleasure of all art; it is the part the schools cannot recognize.

 Love between man and man is impossible because there must not be sexual intercourse and friendship between man and woman is impossible because there must be sexual intercourse.

 Men are governed by lines of intellect - women: by curves of emotion.

 Mistakes are the portals of discovery.

 

My mouth is full of decayed teeth and my soul of decayed ambitions.

 My words in her mind: cold polished stones sinking through a quagmire.

 Nations have their ego, just like individuals.

 No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.

 Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality.

 Satan, really, is the romantic youth of Jesus re-appearing for a moment.

 Shakespeare is the happy hunting ground of all minds that have lost their balance.

 The actions of men are the best interpreters of their thoughts.

 The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.

 The demand that I make of my reader is that he should devote his whole Life to reading my works.

 The men that is now is only all palaver and what they can get out of you.

 There is no heresy or no philosophy which is so abhorrent to the church as a human being.

 Think you're escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.

Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not.

 When I die Dublin will be written in my heart.

 Writing in English is the most ingenious torture ever devised for sins committed in previous lives. The English reading public explains the reason why.

 You forget that the kingdom of heaven suffers violence: and the kingdom of heaven is like a woman.

 Your battles inspired me - not the obvious material battles but those that were fought and won behind your forehead.

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John Reed (Above)

 

"War means an ugly mob-madness, crucifying the truth tellers, choking the artists, sidetracking reforms, revolutions, and the working of social forces"

"In the relations of a weak Government and a rebellious people there comes a time when every act of the authorities exasperates the masses, and every refusal to act excites their contempt."

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Leo Tolstoy

 He never chooses an opinion; he just wears whatever happens to be in style.

 Historians are like deaf people who go on answering questions that no one has asked them.

 I sit on a man's back, choking him and making him carry me, and yet assure myself and others that I am very sorry for him and wish to ease his lot by all possible means - except by getting off his back.

 If so many men, so many minds, certainly so many hearts, so many kinds of love.

 If there existed no external means for dimming their consciences, one-half of the men would at once shoot themselves, because to live contrary to one's reason is a most intolerable state, and all men of our time are in such a state.

 If you want to be happy, be.

Boredom: the desire for desires.

 Even in the valley of the shadow of death, two and two do not make six.

 Government is an association of men who do violence to the rest of us.

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A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike. And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find that after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.

 A journey is like marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it. 
 

 A sad soul can kill quicker than a germ. 
 

 Four hoarse blasts of a ship's whistle still raise the hair on my neck and set my feet to tapping.

 Give a critic an inch, he'll write a play.

In utter loneliness a writer tries to explain the inexplicable.
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Excerpt
Death with Interruptions

     THE FOLLOWING DAY, NO ONE DIED. THIS FACT, BEING ABSOLUTELY contrary to life’s rules, provoked enormous and, in the circumstances, perfectly justifiable anxiety in people’s minds, for we have only to consider that in the entire forty volumes of universal history there is no mention, not even one exemplary case, of such a phenomenon ever having occurred, for a whole day to go by, with its generous allowance of twenty-four hours, diurnal and nocturnal, matutinal and vespertine, without one death from an illness, a fatal fall, or a successful suicide, not one, not a single one. Not even from a car accident, so frequent on festive occasions, when blithe irresponsibility and an excess of alcohol jockey for position on the roads to decide who will reach death first. New year’s eve had failed to leave behind it the usual calamitous trail of fatalities, as if old Atropos with her great bared teeth had decided to put aside her shears for a day. There was, however, no shortage of blood. Bewildered, confused, distraught, struggling to control their feelings of nausea, the firemen extracted from the mangled remains wretched human bodies that, according to the mathematical logic of the collisions, should have been well and truly dead, but which, despite the seriousness of the injuries and lesions suffered, remained alive and were carried off to hospital, accompanied by the shrill sound of the ambulance sirens. None of these people would die along the way and all would disprove the most pessimistic of medical prognoses, There’s nothing to be done for the poor man, it’s not even worth operating, a complete waste of time, said the surgeon to the nurse as she was adjusting his mask. And the day before, there would probably have been no salvation for this particular patient, but one thing was clear, today, the victim refused to die. And what was happening here was happening throughout the country. Up until the very dot of midnight on the last day of the year there were people who died in full compliance with the rules, both those relating to the nub of the matter, i.e. the termination of life, and those relating to the many ways in which the aforementioned nub, with varying degrees of pomp and solemnity, chooses to mark the fatal moment. One particularly interesting case, interesting because of the person involved, was that of the very ancient and venerable queen mother. At one minute to midnight on the thirty-first of December, no one would have been so ingenuous as to bet a spent match on the life of the royal lady. With all hope lost, with the doctors helpless in the face of the implacable medical evidence, the royal family, hierarchically arranged around the bed, waited with resignation for the matriarch’s last breath, perhaps a few words, a final edifying comment regarding the moral education of the beloved princes, her grandsons, perhaps a beautiful, well-turned phrase addressed to the ever ungrateful memory of future subjects. And then, as if time had stopped, nothing happened. The queen mother neither improved nor deteriorated, she remained there in suspension, her frail body hovering on the very edge of life, threatening at any moment to tip over onto the other side, yet bound to this side by a tenuous thread to which, out of some strange caprice, death, because it could only have been death, continued to keep hold. We had passed over to the next day, and on that day, as we said at the beginning of this tale, no one would die. 
   
 
From Death with Interruptions by José Saramago, copyright © José Saramago and Editorial Caminho S.A., Lisbon 2005, English translation copyright © Margaret Jull Costa 2008. Reprinted with permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. All rights reserved.

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The Beats

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"Americans should know the universe itself as a road, as many roads, as roads for traveling souls." -Walt Whitman

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     Philip Whalen,one of the pioneering forces behind the San Francisco Poetry Renaissance of the mid-1950s, was born on October 20, 1923 in Portland, Oregon. During WWII, he served in the US Army Air Corps and later attended Reed College on the GI Bill and received his B.A. in 1951. Gary Snyder and Lew Welch were Whalen's roommates during college.

     Whalen read with Gary Snyder, Allen Ginsberg, Philip Lamantia, and Michael McClure at the Six Gallery on October 7, 1955, when the infamous "Howl" was first read. Whalen's work differs from much Beat writing in its reverential treatment of the mundane, its self-deprecating humor, and its generally apolitical tone. Dictionary of Literary Biography essayist Paul Christensen writes: "

     Whalen's singular style and personality contribute to his character in verse as a bawdy, honest, moody, complicated songster of the frenzied mid-century, an original troubadour and thinker who refused to take himself too seriously during the great revival of visionary lyric in American poetry." Whalen was ordained a Zen Buddhist priest in 1973 and became head monk, Dharma Sangha, in Santa Fe, New Mexico in 1984.

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The Memory Of

Mr J who had been poor for years

Inherited all the money in the world

Bought a gun to blow a hole in his head

To let in air and light he said

To let me out

Today, I have my head to shave

There are lights and shadows in it

All too soon empty open ashes

Join mirthfully to earth

The Dilemma of the Occasion Is...

She says she's funny-looking

She can't decide on hair nor clothes.

There are too many shoes to wear.

Almost every downtown corner

Displays crippled, sick and dirty people

Beat and tromped on. Others look

For what to look at, watch to see

If they are noticed

Where to spend all this money.

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The Expensive Life

Tying up my plastic shoes

I realize I'm outside, this is the park & I am free

From whatever pack of nonsense & old tape loops

Play with the Ayer's dogs, Barney & Daphne

They don't ask me why I shave my head

"Cut the word lines," Burroughs recommends

Daphne & Barney fatter than ever & only I am dieting

(Crease along the dotted lines)

Loops of tacky thinking fall unloosed. The sun

Getting hotter than my flannel shirt requires

What about THE BUDDHIST REVIVAL IN CHINA?

Won't read it now... too blind to see it

Almost too blind to write this, in my room no flowers

The service station wants four bits for compresssed air

At only 16 pounds per square inch

I can see the farthest mountain.

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The Imperfect Sonnet

"The person of whom you speak is dead."

Where is the second crystal?

One came in last night & took it; this one

Held the papers on the table

Now I want topaze.

In the middle of the night -

The glass doors locked, nothing else missing

Worthless Quartz eccentrically shaped gone

As Emperor Nicholas Romanov

As "Bebe" Rebozo

Say that you love me say

That you will bring me

A delicious cup of coffee

A topaze cup! From Silesia -

Property of Hapsburg Emperors

The better crystal is upstairs.

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PICTURE THIS.....

Steichen

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Bill Hudson

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Joe Deal

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The Art of War (Clever, huh?)

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The Art of Travel

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IN THEATERS EVERYWHERE, DAMN IT!!!!!

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The Art of Pop

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Oh, Go Ahead, Admit it...You Wanna Read This Book....  

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Album Art. Sometimes its so cheesy, its actual good. 

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Whey the Wrold Knneds Editers

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Chilled Beer

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The Art of Lothar Schreyer

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Read...........its good for you.

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Lothar Schreyer

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No animals were harmed and no dangerous  pollutants were used in the creation of this web site which makes us feel superior to all other web sites who don't post feel- good- self aggrandizing (and yes its aggrandizing not grandizing, there's no such word as grandizing) notices like this.  We are also a nuclear-free zone

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And now, a public service annoucement

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Art is the highest task and the proper metaphysical activity of this life."-Nietzsche...and he was a really smart guy, so....there you go

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"Nothing is as approved as mediocrity, the majority has established it and it fixes its fangs on whatever gets beyond it either way." Pascal

 

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For Mary: 

 "She has had no role in my life except to keep me sane, fed, housed, amused and protected from unwanted telephone calls; also to restrain me fairly frequently from making a horse's ass of myself in public." Pulitzer Prize winner, Novelist Wallace Stegner on his wife Mary, in 1998

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