“I used to make up little sad songs in my head. I eulogized the falling leaves. I imagined my death in a hundred different ways, but the funeral was always the same: from somewhere in my imagination, out rolled a red carpet. Because after every secret death I died, my greatness was always discovered.”—Leo Gursky, The History of Love by Nicole Krauss
About a month ago Peter took me to the best Vietnamese Phò restaurant. At the time I took it for granted because the sketchy neighborhood that it was in. But then when I was dining at Hamburger Haven on 9th and Clement eating my usual Tuesday evening meal, french fries and a glass of red wine, Stevie Wonder’s "Living Just Enough for the City" came on over broken speakers. To make a long story short, the fog started rolling in pretty thick by the time I finished my glass of wine and Peter finished his violin lessons. I wanted my favorite Vietnamese soup because it warms me up all the way to my toes. We decided to go to Phò Clement because Minh Garden looked, “a little white peoplie,” according to Peter. I agreed, seeing how there were more Asians at Phò Clement. I quickly concluded that non-Asian people like Panda Express, while Asian people might be able to tell authenticity if they tasted it. I ate my Phò and took some home and even got some “green" treats to celebrate.
Note: My boyfriend gets down to his freaky obessesion with S. Palin.
“History is the fiction we invent to persuade ourselves that events are knowable and that life has order and direction. That’s why events are always reinterpreted when values change. We need new versions of history to allow for our current prejudices.”—Calvin, Calvin and Hobbes (via theministryoftruth)
“At times I believed that the last page of my book and the last page of my life were one and the same, that when my book ended I’d end, a great wind would sweep through my rooms carrying the pages away, and when the air cleared of all those fluttering white sheets the room would be silent, the chair where I sat would be empty.”—Leo Gurtsky in The History of Love by Nicole Krauss.
“i thought: the vanity of writing, the vanity of destruction. i thought: because i wrote, i stood my ground. i thought: because i destroyed what i wrote they’re going to find me, beat me, rape me, kill me. i thought: the two acts are related, writing and destruction, hiding and being found.”—roberto bolano, the savage detectives (via paperbackgirl)
How much is my dignity worth? How much disrespect and intolerance will I put up with before enough is enough?
My boyfriend’s aunt hates me because I’m black. I hate the fact that she has now drawn a wedge between him and I. Should I stick around and never be invited to events? Should I tolerate being ignored when I am invited? Should I let my boyfriend tell me it’s ‘not that big of deal,’ but knowing if we were in reverse situations he would be MORE uncomfortable?
“What does she hate most? That he really thinks his suffering is a big deal. He really thinks that what everybody says about him at Athena College, is so life-shattering. It’s a lot of assholes not liking him - it’s not a big deal. And for him this is the most horrible thing that ever happened? Well it’s not a big deal…That’s what she hates about him - the privilegedness of his suffering. He thinks he never had a chance? There’s real pain on this earth and he thinks he never had a chance?”—Faunia Farley, from The Human Stain by Philip Roth