Stuff — events — dates — pile up in our individual histories, but to try organizing them in temporal order, to turn time into space via filing, is to fall back on a convenient fiction.
Not just anyone can be a leader, a job creator, and a master of the world; only the chosen, talented few like me and Ryan, and my dad, who is an orthodontist.
The Democratic party is not the party of teachers, and it is not the party of students. It is the party of privatization, of Wall Street, of the supposed “choice” afforded us by the free market. But it doesn’t have to be.
I get the uncanny valley wiggins. Unreal becomes real, and all of a sudden, the emotions of The Real Housewives become valid, human feelings (albeit ones expressed by dangerous narcissists).
Brighton’s poetry is mostly a collage of randomized words and sounds taken everywhere from Samuel Beckett to Wikipedia, and New Zealand is having a hard time taking him seriously.
David Rakoff and Christopher Hitchens . . . straddled the problem of narrative, shaping the story of their own death and through that process making their way towards acceptance of the incomprehensibility of actually dying. Even when accepted, actually dying does not become comprehensible.
This is a story of the domestication of violence, of how the dark and malevolent is less likely to exist in the grimace of some supervillain in a top hat, and more in the strange smell coming from your neighbors’ basement.