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THE VELVET UNDERGROUND - 1966
Lou Reed, John Cale and Sterling Morrison at the Factory
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Our literary admiration for Rimbaud, Jarry, Lautreamont, and a few others, which has driven two men to suicide, but turned into cafe gossip for the rest, belongs to this idea of literary poetry, of detached art, of neutral spiritual activity which creates nothing and produces nothing; and I can bear witness that at the very moment when that kind of personal poetry which involves only the man who creates it and only at the moment he creates it broke out in its most abusive fashion, the theatre was scorn more than ever before by poets who have never had the sense of direct and concerted action, nor of efficacity, nor of danger.
We must get rid of our superstitious valuation of texts and written poetry. Written poetry is worth reading once, and then should be destroyed. Let the dead poets make way for others. Then we might even come to see that it is our veneration for what has already been created, however beautiful and valid it maybe, that petrifies us, deadens our responses and prevents us from making contacts with that underlying power, call it thought-energy, the life-force, the determinism of change, lunar menses, or anything you like. Beneath the poetry of the texts, there is the actual poetry, without forms and without texts. And just as the efficacity of masks in the magic practices of certain tribes is exhausted - and these masks are no longer good for anything except museums - so the poetic efficacity of a text is exhausted; yet the poetry and the efficacity of the theatre are exhausted least quickly of all, since they permit the action of what is gesticulated and pronounced, and which is never made the same way twice.
Antonin Artaud, The theatre and its double
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"Look, as the day slows towards the space
that draws it into dusk:
rising became upstanding,
standing a laying down, and then
that which accepts its
lying blurs to darkness.
Mountains rest, out glorified be the stars -
but even there,
time’s transition glimmers.
Ah, nightly refuged in my wild heart,
the imperishable lingers." -Rainer Maria Rilke (via art-and-fury)
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"When you love a city and have explored it frequently on foot, your body, not to mention your soul, gets to know the streets so well after a number of years that in a fit of melancholy, perhaps stirred by a light snow falling ever so sorrowfully, you’ll discover your legs carrying you of their own accord toward one of your favorite promontories." -My Name Is Red by Orhan Pamuk (via wandering-street-radio)
(Source: fionawould, via caravaggista)
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"Je revenais d’une fuite immense, en vérité je m’étais soustraite à ce qu’on me présentait comme la vraie vie. J’étais allée chercher la Nuit, j’avais dérivé et traversé la terre. J’allais à tâtons, trouvais des extraits d’étincelles inoubliables, des choses vraiment bien. Alors il fallait les noter, Ne Pas Oublier." -Lola Lafon - De ça je me console
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Paris’e gideceğim. Orada Concorde Meydanı’nda bir taşın üzerine çıkacağım ve haykıracağım: “1915’te Ermenilere soykırım yapılmamıştır!.” O taşın üzerinden ineceğim, Ankara’ya gelecek Güven Park’ta bir taşın üzerine çıkacağım ve “1915’te Ermenilere soykırım yapılmıştır!” (diyeceğim)… Fransa bir kolumdan, Türkiye öteki kolumdan tutup beni hapse sürüklemek isteyecek. Ama ben düşünce özgürlüğünü savunmaktan bir an bile geri kalmayacağım. Bu benim bir aydın olarak, bir insan olarak namusumdur, ödevimdir, sorumluluğumdur. – Հրանտ Դինք - Hrant Dink
J’irai a Paris. La, je vais monter sur un muret et je vais crier ‘Il n’y a pas eu de génocide contre les arméniens en 1915 ! ’ Je vais descendre du muret, je vais aller a Ankara dans le parc de Güven pour y monter sur un muret et ‘Il y a eu un génocide contre les arméniens en 1915 ! ’ (je dirai)… La France me prendra par un bras et la Turquie par l’autre pour me mettre en prison. Mais je ne cesserai une seule seconde de défendre la liberté d’opinion. En tant qu’intellectuel et être humain c’est ma vertu, mon devoir, ma responsabilité. – Հրանտ Դինք - Hrant Dink
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Suicidal feelings are not the same as giving up on life. Suicidal feelings often express a powerful and overwhelming need for a different life. Suicidal feelings can mean, in a desperate and unyielding way, a demand for something new. Listen to someone who is suicidal and you often hear a need for change so important, so indispensable, that they would rather die than go on living without the change. And when the person feels powerless to make that change happen, they become suicidal.
Help comes when the person identifies the change they want and starts to believe it can actually happen. Whether it is overcoming an impossible family situation, making a career or study change, standing up to an oppressor, gaining relief from chronic physical pain, igniting creative inspiration, feeling less alone, or beginning to value their self worth, at the root of suicidal feelings is often powerlessness to change your life – not giving up on life itself.
" -Will Hall, Living with suicidal feelings (via madness-narrative)
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"The firmament that is New York is greater than the sum of its constituent parts. It is a city and it is also a creature, a mentality, a disease, a threat, an electromagnet, a cheap stage set, an accident corridor. It is an implausible character, a monstrous vortex of contradictions, an attraction-repulsion mechanism so extreme no one could have made it up." -Luc Sante, Low Life. (via borgevino)
(Source: jayparkinsonmd, via pantheonaslecum)
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"Why was the body so central in capital’s politics? One is tempted to answer that this obsession with the body reflects the fear that the proletariat inspired in the ruling class. It was the fear felt by the bourgeois or the nobleman alike who, wherever they went, in the streets or their travels, were besieged by a threatening crowd, begging them or preparing to rob them. It was also the fear felt by those presiding over the life of the state whose consolidation was continuously undermined (but also determined) by threat of riots and social disorders. Yet, there was more. We must not forget, in fact, that the beggarly and riotous proletariat, who forced the rich to travel in a carriage to escape its assaults or go to bed with two pistols under the pillow, was the same who increasingly appeared as the source of all wealth. It was the same of whom the mercantilists, the first economists of capitalist society, never tired of repeating (though not without second thoughts) that ‘the more the better,’ often deploring that so many bodies were wasted on the gallows." -Silvia Federici, Caliban and the Witch: Women, the Body, and Primitive Accumulation (via veir)
(Source: goneril-and-regan, via poietike)