I'd been reading this book, right, and it started off kind of soft, almost like a romantic comedy in the British style, and I'm thinking you know: that's OK, I haven't read anything so self indulgent in a while. He barely knows her, wants to spend his life with her, they're in Venice, he's British, she's from California and has got a nipple ring ( Read more... )

so as I'm skimming through Lacan's "The Neurotic's Individual's Myth" for my psychoanalytic criticism class, I pick up my phone to call Hannah. Instead I call my Mom, and it takes me a while. "Why does Hannah's voice sound so funny?" It's 1 AM. We hang up, I call Hannah, and my roommate passes me a banana that's on its last day. Trying to peel ( Read more... )

It was a corral, or something like it, and we were headed out east before-- just before dawn. As time passed and we kept talking the horizon turned purple and green from black. Later, some fingers of red crept up, and though we were both tired and we could have just as easily enjoyed the view sitting or standing idly, the conversation stirred us ( Read more... )

yeah, so, I do, on occasion, miss them. mostly for the talk. It took time to grow and become obvious. I've realized no one else exists, hardly matters, either can't listen or talk, and in the direction that I set off to, diligent, tame, alone, I've found very little besides this.

Sketches from a Hunter's Album ( Read more... )

What's outside the window:

I know that someone is lying down in her bed, beautiful and alone, looking like a poem torn out of my notebook.

We share ear buds and listen to Satie on the subway. You can barely hear a single note over that unbearable harpy that is the R train, but that's the point. Occasionally he turns and says, your mouth is the mouth of a worm. What's in your mouth, worm? I can barely hear him over the harpy's single resounding note. If you close your eyes late at ( Read more... )

there has been extensive theorizing about the destruction of place previously. what can I say? sometimes reading feels like dissolving. I have to get up and walk for an hour every hundred pages just to shake the feeling of being sugar in water. Walking in the city is easier, and I'll be back there soon. To walk past thousands of people knowing ( Read more... )

Now, reconfigure the story like this: Lambert Strether strangles Mary Dalton.  He stuffs her-- rolls her, into a carpet.  That same carpet that hunchbacked, reverse stylite Oskar tried humping her through in the Marabar Caves.  The little devil, the tiny satan drumming away all day at the post office.  Little Birahima walking into Philadelphia with ( Read more... )

About Anselm Jappe's biography on Guy Debord


( Read more... )