“Libraries raised me,” Mr. Bradbury said. “I don’t believe in colleges and universities. I believe in libraries because most students don’t have any money. When I graduated from high school, it was during the Depression and we had no money. I couldn’t go to college, so I went to the library three days a week for 10 years.”
via Tom Sparks
http://twitter.com/tsparks
http://tsparks.tumblr.com
via Martin Klasch
Musselsoppans Vänner: Stag Stories
(http://musselsoppansvanner.blogspot.com/2009/06/stag-stories.html)
“This
is the first in this series of experiments: all 21″x21″ on stiffened muslin, the
flowers and shapes are cut from existing quilt patterns and glued on to fill the
drawing (pencil, graphite and ink, interchangeably).”
via Martin Klasch (http://martinklasch.blogspot.com)
via Ryan’s Neat Stuff (http://neat-stuff-blog.blogspot.com)
| Novel | ||
| by Arthur Rimbaud Translated by Wyatt Mason |
||
I. No one's serious at seventeen. --On beautiful nights when beer and lemonade And loud, blinding cafés are the last thing you need --You stroll beneath green lindens on the promenade. Lindens smell fine on fine June nights! Sometimes the air is so sweet that you close your eyes; The wind brings sounds--the town is near-- And carries scents of vineyards and beer. . . II. --Over there, framed by a branch You can see a little patch of dark blue Stung by a sinister star that fades With faint quiverings, so small and white. . . June nights! Seventeen!--Drink it in. Sap is champagne, it goes to your head. . . The mind wanders, you feel a kiss On your lips, quivering like a living thing. . . III. The wild heart Crusoes through a thousand novels --And when a young girl walks alluringly Through a streetlamp's pale light, beneath the ominous shadow Of her father's starched collar. . . Because as she passes by, boot heels tapping, She turns on a dime, eyes wide, Finding you too sweet to resist. . . --And cavatinas die on your lips. IV. You're in love. Off the market till August. You're in love.--Your sonnets make Her laugh. Your friends are gone, you're bad news. --Then, one night, your beloved, writes. . .! That night. . .you return to the blinding cafés; You order beer or lemonade. . . --No one's serious at seventeen When lindens line the promenade. 29 |
||
r3ckon 