“Twelve voices were shouting in anger, and they were all alike. No question, now, what had happened to the faces of the pigs. The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again: but already it was impossible to say which was which.”
– George Orwell,
Here’s an interesting article that I’ve come across regarding tourist attractions filled with historical human death and destruction. Places like Auschwitz, and Ground Zero. Why are we attracted to these sites? Why do millions of people visit them every year?
To read the article, click here.
“I don’t really think about the audience during my sex scenes. Getting naked feels better some days than others. (Good: when you are vaguely tan. Bad: when you have diarrhea.) But I do it because my boss tells me to. And my boss is me.”
– Lena Dunham,
Not That Kind of Girl
“In front of us, to the right, is the store where we order dresses. Some people call them habits, a good word for them. Habits are hard to break. The store has a huge wooden sign outside it, in the shape of a golden lily; Lilies of the Field, it’s called. You can see the place under the lily, where the lettering was painted out, when they decided that even the names of shops were too much temptation for us. Now places are known by their signs alone.
Lilies used to be a movie theatre, before. Students went there a lot; every spring they had a Humphrey Boghart festival, with Lauren Bacall or Katherine Hepburn, women on their own, making up their minds. They wore blouses with buttons down the front that suggested the possibilities of the word undone. These women could be undone; or not. They seemed to be able to choose. We seemed to be able to choose, then. We were a society dying, said Aunt Lydia, of too much choice.”
– Margaret Atwood,
The Handmaid’s Tale
the droplets drip down your skin
from murky lake water
and I wonder why
no one has jumped at
the chance to catch them
with mouths open
– Megan Lacombe
“The sun is bright but my eyes is wide open. I stand at the bus stop like I been doing for forty-odd years. In thirty minutes, my whole life’s…done. Maybe I ought to keep writing, not just for the paper, but something else, about all the people I know and the things I seen and done. Maybe I ain’t too old to start over, I think, and I laugh and cry at the same time at this. Cause just last night I thought I was finished with everything new.”
– Kathryn Stockett,