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


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

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







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
Click here to continue reading
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

"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

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

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?

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

Writers in Black and White
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.
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.
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."
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.
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.

The Beats
"Americans
should know the universe itself as a road, as many roads, as roads for traveling souls." -Walt Whitman
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.
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.
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.
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.
Steichen
Bill Hudson
Joe Deal
The Art of War (Clever, huh?)
The Art of Travel
IN THEATERS EVERYWHERE, DAMN IT!!!!!
The Art of Pop
Oh,
Go Ahead, Admit it...You Wanna Read This Book....
Album Art. Sometimes its so cheesy, its actual good.
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Whey the Wrold Knneds Editers
Chilled Beer
The Art of Lothar Schreyer




Read...........its good for you.
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Lothar Schreyer
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“Art
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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
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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