From What the Twilight Says by Derek Walcott:
' ... the manic absurdity would be to give up thought because it is white.'
' ... colonial literatures could grow to resemble [English Literature] closely but could never be considered its legitimate heir.'
'All their betrayals are quarrels with the self, their pardonable desertions the inevitable problem of all island artists: the choice of home or exile, self-realization or spiritual betrayal of one's country.'
'The language of the torturer mastered by the victim. This is viewed as servitude, not as victory.'
Thursday, 28 October 2010
Tuesday, 26 October 2010
Without Stress (?)
Came across an article entitled: 'How to Live a Life Without Stress', which I think is complete bull. You have to have stress, you need to be consistently (albeit not continuously) stressed. As humans, we are walking defects with egoes the size of God's thumb (Form 4 Lit students, ring a bell?), and if we're not stressed every now and again, beaten down and cracked open every once in a while, we're bound to end up like: a) inflated balloons, and getting bored of the air, or b) depressed and sad and hating the sunlight because the boredom will eat us whole.
In a way, life is only about escaping boredom. It's not about surviving, not even to 'survive' in this competitive, economically-driven world, because we're just fine, thank you very much, living off cheap bread and working at Tesco's. Having great interest in buying another loaf of Gardenia, however, is another matter.
The purpose of life is a life of purpose.
- Robert Byrne -
In a way, life is only about escaping boredom. It's not about surviving, not even to 'survive' in this competitive, economically-driven world, because we're just fine, thank you very much, living off cheap bread and working at Tesco's. Having great interest in buying another loaf of Gardenia, however, is another matter.
The purpose of life is a life of purpose.
- Robert Byrne -
Tuesday, 12 October 2010
WRITE
I don't know if it's the course. Maybe English Literature disentangles you in such a way that you'd never be able to step back and read without analysing and deciphering and taking apart.
Haven't written in nearly three weeks. Everything I write is bullshit. Nothing is new. Nothing is inspiring. Nothing makes me want to write more. And it's all the same stuff, thrown out over and again, phrased differently, phrased more badly, and I'm searching for this string of words to 'punchline' it out, but nothing's fucking working.
It could be that I'm just PMS-ing.
Haven't written in nearly three weeks. Everything I write is bullshit. Nothing is new. Nothing is inspiring. Nothing makes me want to write more. And it's all the same stuff, thrown out over and again, phrased differently, phrased more badly, and I'm searching for this string of words to 'punchline' it out, but nothing's fucking working.
It could be that I'm just PMS-ing.
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