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Ever finished a book? I mean, truly finished one? Cover to cover. Closed the spine with that slow awakening that comes with reentering consciousness?

You take a breath, deep from the bottom of your lungs and sit there. Book in both hands, your head staring down at the cover, back page or wall in front of you.

You’re grateful, thoughtful, pensive. You feel like a piece of you was just gained and lost. You’ve just experienced something deep, something intimate… Full from the experience, the connection, the richness that comes after digesting another soul.

[…]

It’s no surprise that readers are better people. Having experienced someone else’s life through abstract eyes, they’ve learned what it’s like to leave their bodies and see the world through other frames of reference. They have access to hundreds of souls, and the collected wisdom of all them.

"

Beautiful read on why readers are, “scientifically,” the best people to date

Perhaps Kafka’s timeless contention that books are "the axe for the frozen sea inside us" applies equally to the frozen sea between us. 

(via explore-blog)

"In silence there is eloquence. Stop weaving and see how the pattern improves."

Rumi

(via thecalminside)

(via beingblog)

lastnightsreading:

Karl Ove Knausgaard at Community Bookstore, 6/4/14

lastnightsreading:

Karl Ove Knausgaard at Community Bookstore, 6/4/14

*2
Will
The sky grey tries to 
stand up on its own soon falls 
to being blue again

Will
The sky grey tries to
stand up on its own soon falls
to being blue again

*2

Book Recommendation: Thinking in Numbers by Daniel Tammet

Can there be a better book than this? The poetry of numbers — the epitome of my academic career was imagining this combination, this perfection of synesthesia, and here it is in this book! If the people of the world had epiphanies at some fantastically synchronized moment, it will be with this very book, (Rushdie-esque) instantaneity at the stroke of midnight perhaps, with a simultaneity of perfect thoughts of aesthetic wonder! And truthfully, this is not hyperbolic, or mere rhetoric; it is like all matters of the heart, terribly passionate.

Harper Lee's Love-letter to Words on Pages

Harper Lee’s Letter to Oprah in nostalgic ache for the pre-digital era, before not just the kindle, or the twitter era of brief, poetic nothingness, but also before the age of computers, where writing involved a unique physicality — of a certain kind of paper, or an aesthetically prime ink, or the right kind of light, in the right kind of space, with the right kind of sounds consuming you when you re-read what you wrote. When there wasn’t just this one convenient, but simplistic modular device for everything you ever did — the iPhone, for example.
Were they the best times? Perhaps, yes, at least according to reclusive little Harper Lee.
Her love starts with “…weeping for Anna Karenina and being terrified by Hannibal Lecter, entering the heart of darkness with Mistah Kurtz, having Holden Caulfield ring you up — some things should happen on soft pages, not cold metal.”

The sky is learning how to paint this evening, right before a monsoon rain, unsure of its colors. A horizon of warm fades into the highway of a cool absence, a cochineal becomes a mazarin, so slightly inhibited in it’s innocence, in it’s steady drift of confidence in itself, in it’s creativity — as if what it does is not natural, not true to itself, as it once was. Because who, ever, wants to change if not for the necessity of shame? Transformation begins such, but ends in regret.

“‘All poems are about dying’ I must have been really young when I said that, all poems are about not dying” Charles Wright’s literary, imaginative obsessions of death and landscape in his poetry. His is a kind of poetry that is especially interested in space, sometimes abstractly — the negative space created by death or the space in landscape, all of which is beautifully portrayed. His poems have a strong painterly visual fascination, which I think is fantastic about his work.
What is, in fact, even more mind-boggling, and discussion-worthy, is the idea of our perception of death as time progresses — as reality alters over the space of time.

A Mindful Aesthetic

Anonymous said: Your blog is fascinating. Zia Haider Rahman

Why, thank you good sir. It has been a rather aimless wandering into the depths of our knowledge.
Is it safe to assume you are the author of In the Light of What We Know? I am already a fan, reading the reviews of the book. Thank you for writing it.

In conversation with Charles Wright, US poet laureate 2014. When he couldn’t write stories, he came to the lyric poem; rather late, but profoundly! It was “an associational progression, and not a Frostian or Dickensian narrative,” which drew him to the lyric poem. When you’ve always wanted to write, but cannot seem to wrap your memories around the telling of a story, you naturally succumb to the pleasures of writing, listening, reading lyric poetry; what wonderful form it is for us who cannot tell stories.

that-angle-of-refraction-though:

Pythagoras theorem proof

Beauty is when it all fits, sometimes despite it’s seeming paradoxes — Proof of Pythagoras’ Theorem visually proven

that-angle-of-refraction-though:

Pythagoras theorem proof

Beauty is when it all fits, sometimes despite it’s seeming paradoxes — Proof of Pythagoras’ Theorem visually proven

(Source: trigonometry-is-my-bitch, via visualizingmath)

*39
conceptsketch:

steven holl

Because what you often do is sculpt the world perfect, Platonic solid kind of perfect or anything tangible, but open spaces are sometimes sculpted with surfaces that fall back, not to enclose the space, but to create a void. When you attempt to sculpt the sky, that is when you’ve reached the idea, because often spaces are shelters that keep the sky away, but what if these surfaces attempt to sculpt the sky so much so that they make the ineffable open expanse tangible — a piece of art, sculpted, for you to walk around?

conceptsketch:

steven holl

Because what you often do is sculpt the world perfect, Platonic solid kind of perfect or anything tangible, but open spaces are sometimes sculpted with surfaces that fall back, not to enclose the space, but to create a void. When you attempt to sculpt the sky, that is when you’ve reached the idea, because often spaces are shelters that keep the sky away, but what if these surfaces attempt to sculpt the sky so much so that they make the ineffable open expanse tangible — a piece of art, sculpted, for you to walk around?

arkitekcher:

House of Writing: Suspended Cabins for Writers  |  FRPO - Rodriguez & OriolLocation: Montricher Sur Morges, Switzerland
- A powerful image came to our mind the day we started working on this project: the image of a city of lights. Cabins would hang from the canopy as lit inhabited lanterns that would give light to the city. But the lanterns of the House of Writing would host a special source of light: Literature. 

"If there is a heaven it would be a library," and if I were Borges I would say just that, and be content with the thought of a mere bibliophilic heaven. But if there is a heaven, its light would be literature — that is a thought I’d like to dwell on for whatever time that’s left. The love of spaces and language comes together, like it justly should, in this ideal architectural model. P.S: How this is not a religious post, everyone should see.

arkitekcher:

House of Writing: Suspended Cabins for Writers  |  FRPO - Rodriguez & Oriol
Location: Montricher Sur Morges, Switzerland

- A powerful image came to our mind the day we started working on this project: the image of a city of lights. Cabins would hang from the canopy as lit inhabited lanterns that would give light to the city. But the lanterns of the House of Writing would host a special source of light: Literature.

"If there is a heaven it would be a library," and if I were Borges I would say just that, and be content with the thought of a mere bibliophilic heaven. But if there is a heaven, its light would be literature — that is a thought I’d like to dwell on for whatever time that’s left. The love of spaces and language comes together, like it justly should, in this ideal architectural model.

P.S: How this is not a religious post, everyone should see.

*31

spring-of-mathematics:

Astroid & Envelopes Hyperbola

Image 1: St. Francis de Sales, Muskegon, Michigan, Marcel Breue

"I was a man who thrived on solitude; without it I was like another man without food or water. Each day without solitude weakened me. I took no pride in my solitude; but I was dependent on it. The darkness of the room was like sunlight to me."

Charles Bukowski, Factotum (via liquidnight)