"Not a single star will be left in the night.
The night will not be left.
I will die and, with me, the weight of the intolerable universe.
I shall erase the pyramids, the medallions, the continents and faces.
I shall erase the accumulated past.
I shall make dust of history, dust of dust.
Now I am looking on the final sunset.
I am hearing the last bird.
I leave nothingness to no one."

Jorge Luis Borges, The Suicide (via heddagabler)

Jorge Luis Borges - The Book of Sand

tulipalo:

…thy rope of sands…
George Herbert (1593-1623)¹

Lines consist of an infinite number of points; planes an infinite number of lines; volumes an infinite number of planes, hypervolumes an infinite number of volumes… No, this, this more geometrico, is definitely not the best way to begin my tale. Affirming a fantastic tale’s truth is now a story-telling convention; mine, though, is true.

I live alone, in a fourth-floor apartment on Calle Belgrano. One evening a few months ago, I heard a knock on the door. I opened it and in walked someone I had never met before. He was a tall man, of indistinct features. My myopia perhaps made me see him that way. Everything about him spoke of an honest poverty. He was dressed in grey and carried a grey valise. I sensed immediately that he was a foreigner. At first I thought him an old man; later I noticed that what misled me was his sparse hair, an almost-white blond, like a Scandinavian’s. Over the course of our conversation, which would last no longer than an hour, I learnt that he hailed from the Orkneys.

Read More

Is Philosophy Literature?

Is philosophy literature? Do people read philosophy for pleasure? Of course it is, and of course they do… (click title to read more)

"By this point in my stay, my list of don’ts covered three pages and included such reminders as: never fall asleep in a dumpster, never underestimate a bee, never drive a convertible behind a flatbed truck, never get old, never get drunk near a train, and never, under any circumstances, cut off your air supply while masturbating. This last one is a nationwide epidemic, and it’s surprising the number of men who do it while dressed in their wife’s clothing, most often while she is out of town. To anyone with similar inclinations, a word of warning: after you’re discovered, the police will take snapshots of your dead, costumed body, which will then be slid into photo albums and poured over by people like me, who can’t take the stench of an incoming decomp, so hole themselves up in the records room, moaning “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God,” not sure if they’re referring to your plum-coloured face or to the squash blossom necklace you’ve chosen to go with that blouse."

When you are engulfed in Flames - David Sedaris (via thenextbestbookclub)

funnyawesomevideos:

Henri 3, Le Vet (by HenriLeChatNoir)

"I exist. It’s sweet, so sweet, so slow. And light: you’d think it floated all by itself. It stirs. It brushes by me, melts and vanishes. Gently, gently. There is bubbling water in my mouth. I swallow. It slides down my throat, it caresses me—and now it comes up again into my mouth. For ever I shall have a little pool of whitish water in my mouth—lying low—grazing my tongue. And the throat is me."

Jean-Paul Sartre as translated by Lloyd Alexander in ‘Nausea’. Norfolk, Conn.: New Directions, 1949 (p.134). (via henceaway)

bookshelfporn:

Piano Bookshelf. 

Become a fan of Bookshelf Porn on Facebook.

Can you find the second kitty?

marymur:

:33

Photos by Marina Gluhankova.