Announcement

Collapse
No announcement yet.

What are you reading?

Collapse
X
 
  • Filter
  • Time
  • Show
Clear All
new posts
  • theconsumer
    Senior Member
    • Feb 2009
    • 139

    Got lost there a while ago. Still have plans to read it together with Time, Space and Knowledge and more Tarthang Tulku once industrial civilization crashes and I get enough time.

    Originally posted by BeauIXI View Post
    Still deliriously blundering through A Thousand Plateaus.

    Comment

    • HreP
      Member
      • Mar 2011
      • 50

      Haha, it was quite a surprise suddenly to see that one on here as I'm Danish and have recently purchased exactly that book.

      Originally posted by BECOMING-INTENSE View Post

      A relatively new danish translation (2008) after:

      Franz Kafka: Schriften, Tagbücher, Briefe, kritische Ausgabe.

      A two volume translation: All the texts that was published during
      his life, and major texts and text fragments that was left behind
      after his death.

      Right now I'm just reading Brave New World alongside works on and by various philosophers, but that's just the usual.

      Comment

      • Faust
        kitsch killer
        • Sep 2006
        • 37852

        Reread Macbeth on the plane - going to see it in a few weeks. I have to say, it does not move me that way King Lear or Hamlet does...
        Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months - Oscar Wilde

        StyleZeitgeist Magazine

        Comment

        • underground lover
          Junior Member
          • Feb 2010
          • 29

          Originally posted by Faust View Post
          Reread Macbeth on the plane - going to see it in a few weeks. I have to say, it does not move me that way King Lear or Hamlet does...
          I'd have to agree. I haven't read King Lear, but I read Macbeth and Hamlet a year apart and there really wasn't a comparison for me. I just didn't experience anywhere near same empathy for the characters in Macbeth. In saying that, it'll be interesting to see the production - the interpretation is almost always different.

          On a completely different note, I'm about to start reading this...

          subvert normality.

          Comment

          • Faust
            kitsch killer
            • Sep 2006
            • 37852

            /\ this is such a hilarious book. you will love it. and then read king lear!
            Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months - Oscar Wilde

            StyleZeitgeist Magazine

            Comment

            • lost53
              Senior Member
              • Dec 2010
              • 658

              Re-reading after a 10 year lapse- Brideshead Revisited. It is even better than I remembered.
              I love this book, but there will be tears at the end!

              Comment

              • galia
                Senior Member
                • Jun 2009
                • 1719



                it's quite good. a history of punk and post punk in germany. kind of the BRD version of "Please Kill Me" (also a fun read)

                Comment

                • trentk
                  Senior Member
                  • Oct 2010
                  • 709

                  Friedrich Nietzsche, Ecce Homo
                  Jacques Derrida, Writing and Différance
                  Michel Foucault, History of Madness
                  Jean Lorraine, Monsieur de Phocas
                  Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs de Mal
                  "He described this initial impetus as like discovering that they both were looking at the same intriguing specific tropical fish, with attempts to understand it leading to a huge ferocious formalism he characterizes as a shark that leapt out of the tank."

                  Comment

                  • Carpe Noctem
                    Senior Member
                    • Dec 2010
                    • 112

                    Ecce Homo is great.
                    "My Roll is to Rock"
                    -Jimmy Page

                    Comment

                    • trentk
                      Senior Member
                      • Oct 2010
                      • 709

                      agreed, especially when taken out of context:
                      Originally posted by Nietzsche
                      We all know what a long ears is. Very well, I dare to assert I possess the smallest ears.
                      Originally posted by Nietzsche
                      I am the anti-ass par excellence and therewith a world historical monster - I am, in Greek, and not only in Greek, the Antichrist ...
                      Originally posted by Nietzsche
                      I am not a man, I am dynamite.
                      Originally posted by Nietzsche
                      This period of exactly eighteen months, might suggest, at least to Buddhists, that I am in reality a female elephant.
                      "He described this initial impetus as like discovering that they both were looking at the same intriguing specific tropical fish, with attempts to understand it leading to a huge ferocious formalism he characterizes as a shark that leapt out of the tank."

                      Comment

                      • TypicalFashion
                        Senior Member
                        • Mar 2007
                        • 326

                        Comment

                        • michael_kard
                          Senior Member
                          • Oct 2010
                          • 2152

                          /\ Trentk, that's funny.
                          ENDYMA / Archival fashion & Consignment
                          Helmut Lang 1986-2005 | Ann Demeulemeester | Raf Simons | Burberry Prorsum | and more...

                          Comment

                          • Fade to Black
                            Senior Member
                            • Sep 2008
                            • 5340

                            started reading the short story anthology Brief Interviews with Hideous Men by David Foster Wallace, got through the first three on the morning train. In the span of those fourteen pages the writing was firstly laconic, on to absurd and then at last profound; a pretty exhausting experience. Eventually hope to graduate to Infinite Jest, although will most likely get through The Pale King first.
                            www.matthewhk.net

                            let me show you a few thangs

                            Comment

                            • HreP
                              Member
                              • Mar 2011
                              • 50

                              It might just be me, but I find it very impressing that one can concentrate on reading Nietzsche, Lorraine, Foucault, Derrida and Baudelaire concurrently. I'd prefer to finish each before proceeding to the next one.

                              Currently I'm reading Rules for the Direction of the Mind by Descartes as I'm trying to gain a broader knowledge about The Enlightment.

                              Comment

                              • BeauIXI
                                Senior Member
                                • Nov 2008
                                • 1272

                                Don't let Descartes push your cogito around too much, HreP.

                                Doing a study on this poem by James Schuyler. Feel free to partake if you like, I'm not sure if this is technically copywritten, however, if someone feels I could get the rap for posting this, don't hesitate to let me know!

                                Hymn to Life

                                The wind rests its cheek upon the ground and feels the cool damp
                                And lifts its head with twigs and small dead blades of grass
                                Pressed into it as you might at the beach rise up and brush away
                                The sand. The day is cool and says, “I’m just staying overnight.”
                                The world is filled with music, and in between the music, silence
                                And varying the silence all sorts of sounds, natural and man made:
                                There goes a plane, some cars, geese that honk and, not here, but
                                Not so far away, a scream so rending that to hear it is to be
                                Never again the same. “Why, this is hell.” Out of the death breeding
                                Soil, here, rise emblems of innocence, snowdrops that struggle
                                Easily into life and hang their white enamel heads toward the dirt
                                And in the yellow grass are small wild crocuses from hills goats
                                Have cropped to barrenness. The corms (rhizomes) come by mail, are planted.
                                Then do their thing: to live! To live! So natural and so hard
                                Hard as it seems it must be for green spears to pierce the all but
                                Frozen mold and insist that they too, like mouse-eared chickweed,
                                Will live. The spears lengthen, the bud appears and spreads, its
                                Seed capsule fattens and falls, the green turns yellowish and withers
                                Stretched upon the ground. In Washington, magnolias were in bud. In
                                Charlottesville early bulbs were up, brightening the muck. Tomorrow
                                Will begin another spring. No one gets many, one at a time, like a long
                                Awaited letter that one day comes. But it may not say what you hoped
                                Or distraction robs it of what it once would have meant. Spring comes
                                And the winter weather, here, may hold. It is arbitrary, like the plan
                                Of Washington, D.C. Avenues and circles in asphalt web and no
                                One gets younger: which is not, for the young, true, discovering new
                                Freedoms at twenty, a relief not to be a teen-ager anymore. One of us
                                Had piles, another water on the knee, a third a hernia—a strangulated
                                Hernia is one of life’s less pleasant bits of news—and only
                                One, at twenty, moved easily through all the galleries to pill
                                Free sleep. Oh, it’s not all that bad. The sun shines on my hand
                                And the myriad lines that criss-cross tell the story of nearly fifty
                                Years. Sorry, it’s too long to relate. Once, when I was young, I
                                Awoke at first light and sitting in a rocking chair watched the sun
                                Come up beyond the houses across the street. Another time I stood
                                At the cables of a liner and watched the wake turning and
                                Turning upon itself. Another time I woke up and in a bottle
                                On a chest of drawers the thoughtful doctor had left my tonsils. I
                                Didn’t keep them. The turning of the globe is not so real to us
                                As the seasons turning and the days that rise out of early gray
                                —The world is all cut-outs then—and slip or step steadily down
                                The slopes of our lives where the emotions and needs sprout. “I
                                Need you,” tree, that dominates this yard, thick-waisted, tall
                                And crook branched. Its bark scales off like that which we forget:
                                Pain, an introduction at a party, what precisely happened umpteen
                                Years or days or hours ago. And that same blue jay returns, or perhaps
                                It is another. All jays are one to me. But not the sun which seems at
                                Each rising new, as though in the night it enacted death and rebirth,
                                As flowers seem to. The roses this June will be different roses
                                Even though you cut an armful and come in saying, “Here are the roses,”
                                As though the same blooms had come back, white freaked with red
                                And heavily scented. Or a cut branch of pear blooms before its time,
                                “Forced.” Time brings us into bloom and we wait, busy, but wait
                                For the unforced flow of words and intercourse and sleep and dreams
                                In which the past seems to portend a future which is just more
                                Daily life. The cat has a ripped ear. He fights, he fights all
                                The tom cats all the time. There are blood gouts on a velvet seat.
                                Easily sponged off: but these red drops on a book of Stifter’s, will
                                I remember and say at some future time, “Oh, yes, that was the day
                                Hodge had a torn ear and bled on the card table?” Poor
                                Hodge, battered like an old car. Silence flows into my mind. It
                                Is spring. It is also still really winter. Not a day when you say,
                                “What a beautiful spring day.” A day like twilight or evening when
                                You think, “I meant to watch the sun set.” And then comes on
                                To rain. “You’ve got to take,” says the man at the store, “the rough
                                With the smooth.” A window to the south is rough with raindrops
                                That, caught in the screen, spell out untranslatable glyphs. A story
                                Not told: so much not understood, a sight, an insight, and you pass on,
                                Another day for each day is subjective and there is a totality of days
                                As there are as many to live it. The day lives us and in exchange
                                We it: after snowball time, a month, March, of fits and starts, winds,
                                Rain, spring hints and wintry arrears. The weather pays its check,
                                Like quarreling in a D.C. hotel, “I won’t quarrel about it, but I made
                                No local calls.” Strange city, broad and desolating, monuments
                                Rearing up and offices like monuments and crowds lined up to see
                                The White House inside. “We went to see the White House. It was lovely.”
                                Not so strange though as the cemetery with guttering flame and
                                Admirals and generals with bigger gravestones than the lesser fry
                                Below Lee’s house, false marble pillars and inside all so
                                Everyday, in every room a shawl tossed untidily upon a chair or bed
                                Created no illusion of lived-in-ness. But the periwinkles do, in beds
                                That flatten and are starred blue-violet, a retiring flower loved,
                                It would seem, of the dead, so often found where they congregate. A
                                Quote from Aeschylus: I forget. All, all is forgotten gradually and
                                One wonders if these ideas that seem handed down are truly what they were?
                                An idea may mutate like a plant, and what was once held basic truth
                                Become an idle thought. like, “Shall we plant some periwinkles there
                                By that bush? They’re so to be depended on.” The wind shakes the screen
                                And all the raindrops on it streak and run in stems. It’s colder.
                                The crocuses close up. The snowdrops are brushed with mud. The sky
                                Colors itself rosily behind gray-black and the rain falls through
                                The basketball hoop on a garage, streaking its backboard with further
                                Trails of rust, a lovely color to set with periwinkle violet-blue.
                                And the trees shiver and shudder in the light rain blasts from off
                                The ocean. The street wet reflects the breakup of the clouds
                                On its face, driving over sky with a hissing sound. The car
                                Slides slightly and in the west appear streaks of different green:
                                A lid lifted briefly on the spring. Then the moon burns through
                                Racing clouds, its aureole that of rings of oil on water in a harbor
                                Bubbling up from an exhaust. Clear the sky. Beside a rim of moon.
                                Three stars and only three and one planet. So under lilacs unleaved
                                Lie a clump of snowdrops and one purple crocus. Purple. A polka-dotted
                                Color little girls are fond of: “See my new dess!” and she twirls
                                On one foot. Then, crossed, bursts into tears. Smiles and rain, like
                                These passing days in which buds swell, unseen as yet, waiting
                                For the elms to color their further out most twigs, only the willow
                                Gleams yellow. Life is hard. Some are strong, some weak, most
                                Untested. These useless truths blow about the yard the day after
                                Rain the soft sunlight making softer shadows on the faded lawn.
                                The world looks so old in the spring, laid out under the sky. One
                                Gull coasts by, unexpected as a kiss on the nape of the neck. These
                                Days need birds and so they come, a flock of ducks, and a bunch of
                                Small fluffy unnamed balls that hide in hedges and make a racket.
                                “The gift of life,” as though, existing in expectancy and then
                                Someone came up and said, “Here,” or, “Happy Birthday.” It is more
                                Mysterious than that, pierced by blue or running in the rain
                                Or simply lying down to read. Writing a postponed letter which may
                                Bring no pleasure: arduous truths to tell. And if you thought March was bad
                                Consider April, early April, wet snow falling into blue squills
                                That underneath a beech make an illusory lake, a haze of blue
                                With depth to it. That is like pain, ordinary household pain,
                                Like piles, or bumping against a hernia. All the signs are set for A OK
                                A day to visit the National Gallery—Velázquez, Degas—but, and
                                What a but, with water on the knee “You’ll need a wheelchair, Mummy.”
                                Coasting among the masterpieces, of what use are they? Angel with a
                                Hurdy-Gurdy or this young man in dun clothes who holds his hat so that
                                The red lining shows and glows. And in the sitting room people sit
                                And rest their feet and talk of where they’ve been, motels and Monticello,
                                Dinner in the Fiji Room. Someone forgets a camera. Each day forgetting:
                                What is there so striking to remember? The rain stops. April shines
                                A little, stormily, the ocean off there makes its freight car noise
                                Or rattles with catarrh and asks to have its nose wiped. Gray descends.
                                An illuminous penetration of unbright light that seeps and coats
                                The ragged lawn and spells out bare spots and winter fallen branches.
                                Yardwork. And now the yardwork is over (it is never over), today’s
                                Stint anyway. Odd jobs, that stretch ahead, wide and mindless as
                                Pennsylvania Avenue or the bridge to Arlington, crossed and recrossed
                                And there the Lincoln Memorial crumbles. It looks so solid: it won’t
                                Last. The impermanence of permanence, is that all there is? To look
                                And see the plane tree. Its crooked branches brush the ground, rear
                                In its age, older than any of us, destined, if all goes well with it,

                                ...
                                Originally posted by philip nod
                                somebody should kop this. this is forever.

                                Comment

                                Working...
                                X
                                😀
                                🥰
                                🤢
                                😎
                                😡
                                👍
                                👎