(1) Need another reason to love David Bowie? His wonderful list, Top 100 Must-Read Books will more than do, I trust.
(2) If Susan Sontag's journals (As Consciousness is Harnessed to Flesh) are any indication, oh boy, would she have hated Twitter. (via Brain Pickings)
"Aphorisms are rogue ideas. Aphorism is aristocratic thinking: this is all the aristocrat is
willing to tell you; he thinks you should get it fast, without spelling
out all the details. Aphoristic thinking constructs thinking as an
obstacle race: the reader is expected to get it fast, and move on. An
aphorism is not an argument; it is too well-bred for that.
To write aphorisms is to assume a mask — a mask of scorn, of
superiority. Which, in one great tradition, conceals (shapes) the
aphorist’s secret pursuit of spiritual salvation. The paradoxes of
salvation. We know at the end, when the aphorist’s amoral, light
(3) The always wonderful White Review excerpts the enigmatic opening chapter from Seiobo There Below, the newest (and magnificent!) novel by the contemporary Hungarian master, László
Krasznahorkai. Krasznahorkai has been feted by peers and critics for his luxuriously long sentences -- each of them seemingly in search of something unidentifiable, somewhere between the commas and semi-colons that accumulate in his paragraphs like the wind-blown apocalyptic ruins of modernity. (Susan Sontag says of him: “the contemporary Hungarian master of apocalypse who inspires comparison with Gogol and Melville.") Ah, but here, these sentences that seem so similar are yet strikingly different, as though this "something unidentifiable" has been found, and maybe known all along. And that something is, in a word, beauty. Seiobo There Below may be Krasznahorkai's masterpiece.
[H]e doesn’t mention it because he doesn’t see it, as he points over
there, because of its continual motionlessness, everyone has got so used
to it, it is always down there, they don’t even notice anymore, yet it
is there as if it weren’t even there, it stands motionlessly, not even a
single feather quivering, it leans forward, raking with its gaze the
foamy froth of the water trickling down, the snow-white unceasingness of
the Kamo, the axis of the city, the artist who is no more, who is
invisible, who is needed by no one.