December 14, 2010



Chapter Heading
by Ernest Hemingway

For we have thought the longer thoughts
And gone the shorter way.
And we have danced to devils’ tunes,
Shivering home to pray;
To serve one master in the night,
Another in the day.

(photo via aquariumdrunkard)

one of my favorites.


December 14, 2010


Moira Shearer in The Red Shoes (1948, dir. Michael Powell & Emeric Pressburger)

“My father took me to see this film in 1950, when I was eight years old. And I’ve never forgotten it. I wouldn’t know how to begin to explain what this film has meant to me over the years. It’s about the joy and exuberance of film-making itself. It’s one of the true miracles of film history.

What keeps nourishing me over the years is the spell the film casts, how it weaves the mystery of the obsession of creativity, of the creative drive. It all comes down to that wonderful exchange early in the film when Anton Walbrook confronts Moira Shearer at a cocktail party. ‘Why do you want to dance?’ he asks, and she answers, ‘Why do you want to live?’ The look on his face is extraordinary.’

Over the years, I’ve thought a lot about that exchange. It expresses so much about the burning need for art – the mystery of the passion to create. It’s not that you want to do it, it’s that you have to do it. You have no choice. You have to live it and it comes with a price. But what a time paying it.”

-Martin Scorsese (2009)

December 14, 2010

December 14, 2010

December 14, 2010

Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words? He thinks I don’t know the ten-dollar words. I know them all right. But there are older and simpler and better words, and those are the ones I use.

Hemingway’s reply when he was criticized by Faulkner for his limited word choice

If you missed the interview I did with them before you can check it out at Examiner.com

December 14, 2010

Clara Bow

December 14, 2010

We’re all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn’t. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities; we are eaten up by nothing.

Charles Bukowski (via theministryoftruth, earthboundwinglessdream) (via whoreofbabalon)

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