mesogeios:

“Reading a poem in translation,“ wrote Bialek, “is like kissing a woman through a veil”; and reading Greek poems, with a mixture of katharevousa and the demotic, is like kissing two women. Translation is a kind of transubstantiation; one poem becomes another. You choose your philosophy of translation just as you choose how to live: the free adaptation that sacrifices detail to meaning, the strict crib that sacrifices meaning to exactitude. The poet moves from life to language, the translator moves from language to life; both like the immigrant, try to identify the invisible, what’s between the lines, the mysterious implications.

– Anne Michaels, Fugitive Pieces

(via anonbea)

icey-miyake:

me and the bad bitch i pulled by indulging in cannibalism and talking to corpses

(via couldnt-think-of-a-funny-name)

bossbutch:

plasticterrarium:

Alison Bechdel wrote this book and chose violence

[image: “most people don’t even try to get what they want because of the painful reckoning with their parents it entails.”]

(via chrisfleming)

rivetingrosie4:

“Oranges” - Gary Soto, June 1983

one of my very favorite poems. that last line slays me. it has stayed with me for years and years.

(via chrisfleming)

osidius-el-enfatico:

another banger from hard times

(via jugitofraga)

bloodofcain:

“Opera has the power to warn you that you have wasted your life. You haven’t acted on your desires. You’ve suffered a stunted, vicarious existence. You’ve silenced your passions. The volume, height, depth, lushness, and excess of operatic utterance reveal, by contrast, how small your gestures have been until now, how impoverished your physicality; you have only used a fraction of your bodily endowment, and your throat is closed.”

— Wayne Koestenbaum, The Queen’s Throat: Opera, Homosexuality, and the Mystery of Desire.

(via dearorpheus)

chaumas-deactivated20230115:

chaumas-deactivated20230115:

chaumas-deactivated20230115:

Had a dream that I was reading a book called The Tiger, about a living city that slowly digested its inhabitants. The title annoyed me because the city was clearly not an ambush predator, but a passive hunter like a jellyfish or sundew. No one knew they were being digested—life in the city just wore them down little by little, and fate always seemed to conspire to keep them there. The book was ambiguous about whether the forces of economic instability and social injustice were supernatural qualities “the tiger” generated to subdue prey or natural occurrences that had attracted “the tiger” to settle in that city as its hunting ground.

wait fuck this was an ABBA dream wasn’t it

The concept of a hard-hitting surreal political horror novel based on an ABBA song is great. Thank you brain keep up the good work.

jessepinkthem:

emailmore:

im so in love with this post one time i got really really high and decided since i dont have a printer that i was going to paint it and hang it up on my wall

(via red-dyed-sarumane)