As a professor was saying that we’re expected to put 120 hours of work in for each class, I was thinking ‘I’ve almost done that with F1 2013. I’ve definitely done that with Pokémon Yellow. And Soul Silver.’

discardingimages:

dangers of reading
Le livre de Lancelot du Lac & other Arthurian Romances, Northern France 13th century.
Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library, MS 229, fol. 133v

discardingimages:

dangers of reading

Le livre de Lancelot du Lac & other Arthurian Romances, Northern France 13th century.

Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library, MS 229, fol. 133v

(via anenglishmajorandcoffee)

I paid the deposit and the first month’s worth of rent for the flat in L e u v en today, so me and James move in in a week’s time. It’s surreal that I only know of it because he told me – over tumblr – that I should go there instead of Amsterdam

"It is hubris to claim that identity consists in the correspondence of the thing in itself with its concept. Yet the ideal of identity cannot be so easily discarded; in the allegation that the object is not identical with the concept resides just as well the concept’s desire that it may become identical with the object. Thus does consciousness of nonidentity include that of identity itself."

Theodor W. Adorno, Negative Dialectics. (via imkrebsgang)

For the union boss, let alone the director, the proletarian (should he ever come face to face with him) is nothing but a supernumerary example of the mass, while the boss in his turn has to tremble at the thought of his own liquidation.

Adorno and Horkheimer, Dialectic of Enlightenment, p. 38

“[In Spinoza] The world has no true reality, and all this that we know as the world has been cast into the abyss of the one identity. There is therefore no such thing as finite reality, it has no truth whatever; according to Spinoza what is, is God, and God alone. Therefore the allegations of those who accuse Spinoza of atheism are the direct opposite of the truth; with him there is too much God. They say: if God is the identity of mind and nature, then nature or the individual man is God. This is quite correct, but they forget that nature and the individual disappear in this same identity; and they cannot forgive Spinoza for thus annihilating them. Those who defame him in such a way as this are therefore not aiming at maintaining God, but at maintaining the finite and the worldly; they do no fancy their own extinction…”

-Hegel, 'Lectures on the History of Philosophy, vol. III'

(Source: aidsnegligee)

Once she’d broken through the gates, dashing past us,
frantic, whipped to fury, ripping her hair out with both hands–
straight to her rooms she rushed, flinging herself
across the bridal-bed, doors slamming shut behind her–
once inside, she wailed for Laius, dead so long,
remembering how she bore his child long ago,
the life that rose up to destroy him, leaving
its mother to mother living creatures
with the very son she’d borne.
Oh how she wept, mourning the marriage-bed
where she let loose that double brood–monsters–
husband by her husband, children by her child.
And then–
but how she died is more than I can say. Suddenly
Oedipus burst in, screaming, he stunned us so
we couldn’t watch her agony to the end,
our eyes were fixed on him. Circling
like a maddened beast, slaking, here, there,
crying out to us–
Give him a sword! His wife,
no wife, his mother, where can he find the mother earth
that cropped two crops at once, himself and all his children?
He was raging–one of the dark powers pointing the way,
none of us mortals crowing around him, no,
with a great shattering cry–someone, something leading him on–
he hurled at the twin doors and bending the bolts back
out of their sockets, crashed through the chamber.

And there we saw the woman hanging by the neck,
cradled high in a woven noose, spinning,
swinging back and forth. And when he saw her,
giving a low, wrenching sob that broke our hearts,
slipping the halter from her throat, he eased her down,
in a slow embrace he laid her down, poor thing …
then, what came next, what horror we beheld!

He rips off her brooches, the long gold pins
holding her robes–and lifting them high,
looking straight up into the points,
he digs them down the sockets of his eyes, crying, “You,
you’ll see no more the pain I suffered, all the pain I caused!
Too long you looked on the ones you never should have seen,
blind to the ones you longed to see, to know! Blind
from this hour on! Blind in the darkness–blind!”
His voice like a dirge, rising, over and over
raising the pins, raking them down his eyes.
And at each stroke blood spurts from the roots,
splashing his beard, a swirl of it, nerves and clots–
black hail of blood pulsing, gushing down.

Sophocles, Oedipus the King

"Mud is at the bottom of their souls; and woe, if their mud still has any spirit!"

Zarathustra (via crematedadolescent)

"

If Adorno were to look upon the cultural landscape of the twenty-first century, he might take grim satisfaction in seeing his fondest fears realized. The pop hegemony is all but complete, its superstars dominating the media and wielding the economic might of tycoons. They live full time in the unreal realm of the mega-rich, yet they hide behind a folksy façade, wolfing down pizza at the Oscars and cheering sports teams from V.I.P. boxes. Meanwhile, traditional bourgeois genres are kicked to the margins, their demographics undesirable, their life styles uncool, their formal intricacies ill suited to the transmission networks of the digital age. Opera, dance, poetry, and the literary novel are still called “élitist,” despite the fact that the world’s real power has little use for them. The old hierarchy of high and low has become a sham: pop is the ruling party.



The Internet threatens final confirmation of Adorno and Horkheimer’s dictum that the culture industry allows the “freedom to choose what is always the same.” Champions of online life promised a utopia of infinite availability: a “long tail” of perpetually in-stock products would revive interest in non-mainstream culture. One need not have read Astra Taylor and other critics to sense that this utopia has been slow in arriving. Culture appears more monolithic than ever, with a few gigantic corporations—Google, Apple, Facebook, Amazon—presiding over unprecedented monopolies. Internet discourse has become tighter, more coercive. Search engines guide you away from peculiar words. (“Did you mean … ?”) Headlines have an authoritarian bark (“This Map of Planes in the Air Right Now Will Blow Your Mind”). “Most Read” lists at the top of Web sites imply that you should read the same stories everyone else is reading. Technology conspires with populism to create an ideologically vacant dictatorship of likes.

"

Alex Ross, “The Naysayers” (via snfprtch)

(via snfprtch)

My copy of Jameson’s Late Marxism arrived today but also I’m pretty close to having played 100 hours of F1 2013 on Steam so

My graduation ceremony’s just started but I’m glad I decided to go to Belgium and look for a flat instead, and even if I’m not there at the minute – since the flat’s being refurbished and won’t be ready till the 24th – I’ll go back for the start of the academic year on the 21st and Sergio's offered to let me stay at his for those three days.
With meeting James, moving in, and starting at a new place, I’m so excited to start writing again. I’ve not written anything since my last dissertation on Béla Tarr and I feel like I’ve done a lot since.