Nick Cave - Let Love In - Full Album 720p HD (by aleksoraven)

lareviewofbooks:

LARB is leading the conversation on David Foster Wallace, with pieces this week on his depression, the influence of math on his writings, a roundtable discussion, and his essay collection Both Flesh and Not.

Every one of these articles was made possible by donations from…

lareviewofbooks:

A really fun, smart piece by Stephen Marche.

sharingpoetry:

If I have made, my lady, intricate
imperfect various things chiefly which wrong
your eyes (frailer than most deep dreams are frail)
songs less firm than your body’s whitest song
upon my mind - if I have failed to snare
the glance too shy - if through my singing slips
the very skilful…

lareviewofbooks:

When David Foster Wallace committed suicide on September 12, 2008, at the age of 46, it was inevitable that we’d eventually read a biography of his life….What wasn’t inevitable is that we’d have a biographer as sensitive and careful as D.T. Max to give us such a strong account so soon after the author’s death. The resulting book, released a little less than four years after Wallace’s suicide, is Every Love Story is a Ghost Story: A Life of David Foster Wallace, which grew out of Max’s widely read 10,000-word New Yorker article, “The Unfinished.” After reading Max’s moving book, I have been haunted by a question that I’m finding incredibly hard to answer.

What would David Foster Wallace have made of his own biography? 

sharingpoetry:

I felt a funeral in my brain,
And mourners, to and fro,
Kept treading, treading, till it seemed
That sense was breaking through.

And when they all were seated,
A service like a drum
Kept beating, beating, till I thought
My mind was going numb.

And then I heard them lift a box,
And creak…

sharingpoetry:

they were all out on the front porch
talking:
Hemingway, Faulkner, T.S. Eliot,
Ezra Pound, Hamsun, Wally Stevens,
e.e. cummings and a few others.

“listen,” said my mother, “can’t you
ask them to stop talking?”

“no,” I said.

“they are talking garbage,” said my
father, “they ought to…

sharingpoetry:

Demain, dès l’aube, à l’heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m’attends.
J’irai par la forêt, j’irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.

Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun…

deadpaint:

Marc Chagall, Le Champ de Mars

sharingpoetry:

Much Madness is divinest Sense —
To a discerning Eye —
Much Sense — the starkest Madness —
’Tis the Majority
In this, as all, prevail —
Assent — and you are sane —
Demur — you’re straightway dangerous —
And handled with a Chain —