When we think of Memorial Day, who do we think of? My uncle died when he was 23. He was a student eager to study medicine before his death as a soldier in the South Vietnamese Army. Every birthday I have past 23, I try to honor him.
why aren’t bookstores open late like bars and clubs? i’ve never sat in my room at midnight thinking a drink would help alleviate all that runs through my mind but i’ve needed the company of souls with something to say, not something to drown. i’ve needed a friend. i’ve needed to hear someone else speak of their life or the lives that have touched them rather than replaying my own drama (or lack thereof) over and over again. i hoard books, stories, volumes of poetry like any individual; i already know i’m going to bury myself alive with all of this. sometimes, i just want to walk through a library in the middle of the night just to see if the stories are more alive at that hour because at night, i’m not always sleepy. i’m exhausted but i don’t always want to sleep. the aisles, the stacks. they wait for us, so why not open them all night. just like me, someone out there needs words, not happy hour.
‘It is a malady.’
‘A fashionable substitute for belief.’
‘You are a sceptic.’
‘Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith.’
‘What are you?’
‘To define is to limit.’” —Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray (via larmoyante)
and remember the old dogs
who fought so well:
Hemingway, Celine, Dostoevsky, Hamsun.
If you think they didn’t go crazy
in tiny rooms
just like you’re doing now
then you’re not ready.” —excerpt from “how to be a good writer”
i know a lot of people who say they love to travel; they talk about the place but it isn’t just the place you’re going to, it’s the people you meet.