“ People who are harder to love pose a challenge, and the challenge makes them easier to love. You’re driven to love them. People who want their love easy don’t really want love.
One of my favorite things in Sylvia Plath’s diaries are the entries that swing from “I need to start having people over for dinner more often! What a pleasure to cook for people!” to “I need to stop having people over for dinner all the time, they’re assholes and I need more time to write.” (Loose paraphrase!)
I think of this whenever I get in a burst of sociability.
“ It is unsafe to take your reader for more of a fool than he is.
“ Your brain is trolling you.
E. B. White writing in his boat shed overlooking Allen Cove, 1976, using a portable manual typewriter. Photo by Jill Krementz
My favorite photo of E.B. White.
by Philip Larkin
Child in the womb,
Or saint on a tomb —
Which way shall I lie
To fall asleep?
The keen moon stares
From the back of the sky,
The clouds are all home
Like driven sheep.
Bright drops of time,
One and two chime,
I turn and lie straight
With folded hands;
They choose this state,
And their minds are wiped calm
As sea-leveled sands.
So my thoughts are:
But sleep stays as far,
Till I crouch on one side
Like a foetus again —
For sleeping, like death,
Must be won without pride,
With a nod from nature,
And a lack of strain,
And a loss of stature.
Meet Cosima Herter, Orphan Black science consultant and the real inspiration for clone Cosima!
"Real Cosima helps us with the science and the larger picture of where the science fits into society…" - Graeme Manson
From a Q&A with Herter: “I see how the science of biology, almost more than any other science, is marshalled into the service of politics, which it tends to be. And, the conception of this show, right down to the characters, the fact that you have a main female character multiple times over! Women are often, throughout history reduced to their biology. And marginalized because of that biology.”
[The following is excerpted from Newsweek with permission of the author]
I came to Los Angeles with a suitcase full of books and shoulder pads stuffed with cash. It was 1992, just a few months after the infamous riots, and I was about to start graduate school at the University of Southern California, near the epicenter of the unrest. One of my professors advised me against coming here—I don’t remember exactly what he said, but the substance of his message could be summarized in three words: Drugs! Guns! Violence! I had been warned so often about muggings that I decided to sew some bills inside the shoulder pads of my jacket. I didn’t know a single soul here.
At once the city felt familiar to me. After all, it had already beamed its likeness to my television screen and to the movie theaters of my hometown 6,000 miles away in Morocco. Look, here was the Hollywood sign, white against the green of the Santa Monica Mountains. Here were the skyscrapers downtown, glowing pink and orange under the rays of the setting sun. Here were the blue skies, the palm trees, the freeways, and the vanity license plates.
— Laila Lalami // Read the rest here.
“ Isn’t it surreal to give narrative shape to life events that seemed so arbitrary and chaotic a decade ago? And surreal to think that everything that happens now will get its own arc in my mind/writing in another decade?
Stuff I Like
One of my favorite things in Sylvia Plath’s diaries are the entries that swing from “I need to start having people over for dinner more often! What...
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