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#essayism
galina · 9 months
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Last night was so much fun – some miracle put me on the guestlist for the boiler room x sugababes gig, we danced for hours and hours, the energy in the room was so good and free and easy, just safe bodies colliding with nothing but love of music holding us up, smoke, sweat, the tiny stage around the decks rocking with our collective bouncing, fun fun fun. This morning I felt so sleepy and happy, there was nothing urgent to do and nowhere to be, looking forward finishing some writing and the weekend rolling in
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noodledesk · 2 years
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what i read this last little bit
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loneberry · 1 year
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“There was something in Ulrich’s nature that in a haphazard, paralyzing, disarming way resisted all logical systematizing, the single-minded will, the specifically directed drives of ambition; it was also connected with his chosen term, “essayism,” even though it contained the very elements he had gradually and with unconscious care eliminated from that concept. The accepted translation of “essay” as “attempt” contains only vaguely the essential allusion to the literary model, for an essay is not a provisional or incidental expression of a conviction capable of being elevated to a truth under more favorable circumstances or of being exposed as an error (the only ones of that kind are those articles or treatises, chips from the scholar’s workbench, with which the learned entertain their special public); an essay is rather the unique and unalterable form assumed by a man’s inner life in a decisive thought. Nothing is more foreign to it than the irresponsible and half-baked quality of thought known as subjectivism. Terms like true and false, wise and unwise, are equally inapplicable, and yet the essay is subject to laws that are no less strict for appearing to be delicate and ineffable. There have been more than a few such essayists, masters of the inner hovering life, but there would be no point in naming them. Their domain lies between religion and knowledge, between example and doctrine, between amor intellectualis and poetry; they are saints with and without religion, and sometimes they are also simply men on an adventure who have gone astray.
Nothing is more revealing, by the way, than one’s involuntary experience of learned and sensible efforts to interpret such essayists, to turn their living wisdom into knowledge to live by and thus extract some “content” from the motion of those who were moved: but about as much remains of this as of the delicately opalescent body of a jellyfish when one lifts it out of the water and lays it on the sand. The rationality of the uninspired will make the teachings of the inspired crumble into dust, contradiction, and nonsense, and yet one has no right to call them frail and unviable unless one would also call an elephant too frail to survive in an airless environment unsuited to its needs. It would be regrettable if these descriptions were to evoke an impression of mystery, or of a kind of music in which harp notes and sighing glissandi predominate. The opposite is the case, and the underlying problem presented itself to Ulrich not at all intuitively but quite soberly, in the following form: A man who wants the truth becomes a scholar; a man who wants to give free play to his subjectivity may become a writer; but what should a man do who wants something in between?”
—Robert Musil, The Man Without Qualities
Yes, Robert — what should we essayists, we who are afflicted with amor intellectualis and poetry, do? It reminds me of the time Harvard sent me a letter in grad school advising me to give up poetry and be monogamous with scholarship. I find myself unable to give up scholarship or poetry, even though I consider poetry to be the higher form of knowledge. The one time I tried to be solely a Poet I failed miserably (dropped out of a poetry MFA) and went running into the arms of Scholarship, where I found great solace in the fact that scholars are informed and not merely whimsical about the workings of the world.
If only I could attach this passage to my tenure file to defend against the charge of having an output that is “incoherent,” though I doubt such self-justifications would pass muster with my dean, who suggested I consider leaving the poetry out of my file all together.
Anyhoo, this book is an underrated masterpiece.
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soeurdelune · 5 months
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avatars (400 x 640): diego calva, signés lune/soeurdelune
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martyrgraph · 1 month
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jamie foxx (400x640).
credit; martyr.
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kalincka · 1 month
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the whiplash belkacem gets once she realizes that the person behind the door with youssef making very obvious handcuff noises was assane. she is not paid enough
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essayisms · 2 years
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As might already know - I moved into my dream flat back in April and this is how my desk and writing space are currently looking. I have a map of independent bookshops in London, an artist print and the two posters I am selling on the shop for my magazine - Spring Journal up on my wall. I just spent the evening wrapping up the first batch of orders ready to post them tomorrow. I am so grateful and so thrilled to be able to do this :’)
ig: rhiharper
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gentrychild · 1 year
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On m'a dit que je devrais venir t'importuner en français, aloooors merci merci d'écrire autant de fics fabuleuses qui m'inspirent et illuminent mes soirées ! (Et m'aident à procrastiner)
Bonsoir! Ecoute, si tu souhaites m'importuner d'une aussi charmante façon, ne te gêne pas! Merci pour tes compliments, qui me vont droit au coeur, et crois-moi, c'est un plaisir de t'aider à procrastiner (une noble activité que j'ai moi-même élevé au rang d'art).
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orageusealizarine · 8 months
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to fuck beyond love
to love with the flesh
yours to mine gently
moving quivering of your body dazed
nights stretching above our heads
opening to the worship of love my mouth
over you – an ablution – your naked body passing
under
.
skies that are collapsing through my shriek
to let you know how adorable you are the glimmering
of lust-love lost in unbearable sensations rising
like the tide of our desire your tongue
licking mine – heavenly – the eyes shut
covering the dusk where our bodies hide
to make a temple
secret sweat all over
.
I love – pornography of our adoration
your flesh your limbs your loins
I love – all – litany of fuck – I love
beyond emotion – your soul – perverted – coalesced
with mine – one (flesh to flesh)
embrace – I love – the way you slide
and slide – touching – my eyes filled with
tears exultations
.
secretions dripping
your saliva spilled and lost over my skin
is a consecration I understand all the prayers to the naked goddess
of love sexual potency I love
your confidence pulsating
through my hands body head
beyond love the slight touch pleasuring
far far away drunkenness paradise
the purest form of ecstasy
divine
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luma-az · 9 months
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Le silence
Défi d’écriture 30 jours pour écrire, 4 août 
Thème : Puzzle/sous la canopée
. .
Une nouvelle pièce est tirée de la boîte du puzzle. Louis l’examine soigneusement avant de la rapprocher de l’image. Ce puzzle est difficile. Rien ne ressemble plus à une feuille d’arbre qu’une autre feuille d’arbre, et là, sous la canopée, ce ne sont pas les feuilles qui manquent.
Les animaux sont déjà faits. Singe, jaguar, anaconda, tout ça c’est assez facile à repérer et à assembler. Les fleurs, aussi, sont presque toutes déjà placées, ou au moins installée environ à la bonne distance des bords. Les bords sont bien sûr déjà finis, c’est la première chose à faire et Louis s’y applique consciencieusement, à chaque fois qu’il ouvre une nouvelle boite.
Il aime les puzzles. Il a toujours aimé ça. Ça empêche de penser.
Louis est installé sous la table – privilège des enfants, en tout cas ceux qui sont encore dans le groupe des petits. Il aimerait bien que la nappe des jours de fête soit installée. Ça ferait comme une cabane de tissu. Il aime bien les cabanes. Il se sent protégé dedans. A l’abri.
Au-dehors, la pluie tambourine contre la vitre, furieuse.
Au-dedans, les éclats de voix toutes aussi furieuses, mais différentes. Feutrées. Les voix de parents qui ne veulent pas que les enfants entendent les disputes.
Là-haut, Lisa est dans sa chambre, écouteurs sur les oreilles, la musique à fond. Elle a passé l’âge de jouer sous la table. De toute façon, Louis ne comptait pas vraiment sur elle. Quand les cris démarrent, c’est chacun pour soi. Chacun sa cachette. Son évasion. Sa technique pour ramener le silence.
Louis se concentre sur ses feuilles. Son puzzle est bien plus dur que ceux recommandés à son âge, mais il s’applique. Et Papa et Maman sont si fiers de lui, après. Ils s’en vantent auprès des autres adultes, la félicitation suprême. Louis qui est si intelligent. Louis qui est si sage. Ah, on a bien du souci avec Lisa, c’est l’âge, c’est la crise d’adolescence, mais Louis est un enfant modèle. Un amour. Un ange.
Louis s’applique. Plus c’est dur, mieux c’est. Il y est presque, dans la jungle. La canopée s’épaissit, feuille après feuille, liane après liane. Les fleurs qui voguaient encore sans amarres trouvent leur place peu à peu dans cette luxuriance verte. C’est plutôt joli.
Un claquement sec dans la cuisine. Le bruit d’une gifle. Louis sursaute comme si c’était un coup de tonnerre. Il regarde un peu, sans les voir, les pièces qui restent devant lui. Elles deviennent floues. Les larmes qui montent. Une porte qui claque. Le moteur de la voiture qui s’éloigne. Des sanglots dans la cuisine.
Il se concentre.
On ne montre pas aux adultes qu’on sait. Ça leur fait de la peine. Il n’y a rien dans la cuisine. Il ne s’est rien passé. Louis essuie ses yeux. Il finit son puzzle. Les feuilles. Les arbres. La canopée. En la regardant assez fort, elle pourrait l’engloutir – offrir un abri plus puissant encore que la table avec sa nappe des jours de fête, un refuge où personne ne pourrait venir le chercher. Il vivrait au milieu des fleurs, des singes et des jaguars.
La pluie tambourine à la fenêtre, de moins en moins fort. Le silence retombe sur la maison.
.
.
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galina · 2 years
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Emily Ogden, On Not Knowing: How to Love and Other Essays
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noodledesk · 2 years
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I distrust writers who write straight away about their depression or other mental pain. I’m suspicious of them in ways I am not, for example, when a writer describes her recent divorce or her present predicament with cancer. But why this doubt or scruple? I tell myself it is because I want from writing, from literature, a more conscious and conspicuously worked evidence of distance and thought, transformation of the raw material. But what if I am simply afraid of the version of honesty that comes with proximity to events—others’ proximity, that is, or my own?
Brian Dillon, Essayism
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machidielontheway · 5 months
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did it now 😑
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soeurdelune · 8 months
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tumblr c'était quand même mieux quand ça marchait en fait
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je-suis-ronflex · 7 months
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La toute première plante que j'ai acheté est en train de mourir et je suis là en mode bitch ça va pas être possible émotionnellement je ne suis pas prêt pour ça je pensais la garder pour toujours ouin
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forislynx · 4 months
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Det viktiga är inte bara att man ser en sak, utan också hur.
Michel de Montaigne, Att smaken av ont och gott till stor del beror på vilka åsikter vi har om dem (ur Essayer 1)
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