"I’m stocking up to the point of choking. And I’m mocked by friends who say, ‘What use is poetry? What use will it be when the war ends?’ But I’m screaming at a moment when screams can go nowhere. And it strikes me that language must force itself into a battle in which the voices are not equal."

Mahmoud Dariwsh, Memory for Forgetfulness: August/Beirut/1982, p.58 (via lovevoltaireusapart)

The mileage Owen Jones is trying to get from the phrase ‘it’s socialism for the rich and capitalism for the rest of us’ is hilarious

So I went to the housing services and borrowed their phone, called two places and didn’t get an answer. A couple minutes later I got a call back, they asked if I’d called about a flat, I said yes etc. and I was certain it was this particular one. Then I got another call back from someone else, saying that they owned the same place and that I’d called them. I asked them if they had a colleague or anyone else who might deal with that, they said no, and then he gave me a lot more information than the previous person, and information that matched its listing information (things like he wasn’t able to have a viewing before six, since he was working, whereas I’d booked the appointment before at five). 
I went to the estate agent in case I’d booked a viewing for the wrong place and they hadn’t had any calls or appointments made for five. I booked a viewing for the other flat but I have no idea who called me. I was certain it was the first flat till I got the second call. I have no idea where I’d even go at five.

It’s difficult to write on a postcard. And perhaps I’ve helped myself, and perhaps I haven’t, writing on one so saturated; a postcard from the Freud museum in London, that I bought at a conference already commemorating 20 years of Archive Fever, of Freud writing with his own shadow looming behind him; writing in Leuven, 100 years after the etching, 100 years after the library burnt. But with that all I wanted to thank you. Over the past year I’ve always looked forward to your tutorials, even when I’ve not been there, and with reading each text back I’ve learnt that there is something in them that was never in me (and forgetting almost becomes a gift). I still laugh that my last dissertation was a paragraph.

I was writing drafts for cards and postcards to send to my lecturers, thanking them, and I got carried away – and sentimental – with this one. This isn’t gonna fit.

on my way to mcdonalds via the institute of philosophy

crematedadolescent:

Heidegger felt a slight discomfort about an optimism that was secretly proud of having proven God in the laboratory; proud of having done so by the discovery of the Gestalt which is structured prior to all thinking preparation.

Theodor Adorno, The Jargon of Authenticity

ow*ned

(Source: strangewood, via spiritandteeth)

Haven’t slept for well over 24 hours, I’ve been wearing that fucking backpack for 12, and I’ve walked around Leuve*n several times with it trying to chase different bits of information; everywhere I went I was told it was the wrong place; I almost cried in city hall when I was told I had absolutely none of the information I needed to declare myself as living here

valterbenyamin:

Airport tonight, Belgium tomorrow. Torn between whether or not I should get a haircut in the next couple hours.

Imagine me walking round the airport like this and not under fluorescent lights at 1:30am waiting for my flight at 7am, wasting my 45 minutes of courtesy internet

valterbenyamin:

Airport tonight, Belgium tomorrow. Torn between whether or not I should get a haircut in the next couple hours.

Imagine me walking round the airport like this and not under fluorescent lights at 1:30am waiting for my flight at 7am, wasting my 45 minutes of courtesy internet

Airport tonight, Belgium tomorrow. Torn between whether or not I should get a haircut in the next couple hours.

Airport tonight, Belgium tomorrow. Torn between whether or not I should get a haircut in the next couple hours.

Called an estate agent in Leuve*n and we basically can’t do anything about accommodation till we’re there, and a couple places I’d asked about have been taken. So my mum’s suggested I leave in the next few days instead of waiting a couple weeks’ time. Easy Jet, Gatwick to Brussels, is £55…

Also I hate the tagging system on tumblr so hopefully the asterisk means this isn’t automatically in that tag.