Quote of the Day

“Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversations, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is non-existent. And don’t bother concealing your thievery - celebrate it if you feel like it. In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Godard said: “It’s not where you take things from - it’s where you take them to.”

-- Jim Jarmusch

I can appreciate the idea, though credit should be given where credit is due. I'm also glad that I was able to stir a little from my laziness and google the name. It turns out that Jarmusch directed "Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai", a personal favorite.

Quote of the Day

“Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversations, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is non-existent. And don’t bother concealing your thievery - celebrate it if you feel like it. In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Godard said: “It’s not where you take things from - it’s where you take them to.”

-- Jim Jarmusch

I can appreciate the idea, though credit should be given where credit is due. I'm also glad that I was able to stir a little from my laziness and google the name. It turns out that Jarmusch directed "Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai", a personal favorite.

Macro of the Day

Ouch, that hurts!

(Courtesy of InspirePlease)

Macro of the Day

Ouch, that hurts!

(Courtesy of InspirePlease)

Sex Slaves In America

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Sex Slaves In America

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1984 (1,1) The Dark-Haired Girl

Then there is my favorite character, Monk being Monk. She comes to the same two-minute hate session with Winston. Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine:

She was a bold-looking girl of about twenty-seven, with thick dark hair, a freckled face, and swift, athletic movements. A narrow scarlet sash, emblem of the Junior Anti-Sex League, was wound several times around the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to bring out the shapeliness of her hips. Winston had disliked her from the very first moment of seeing her, he knew the reason. It was because of the atmosphere of hockey fields and cold baths ad community hikes and general clean-mindedness which she managed to carry about with her.

At first, he hates her, fears her, her apparent sexlessness and rigid political orthodoxy, taking her to be one of Big Brother’s righteous pets. Of course, we know better. She is a rebel in her soul, perhaps even more so than Winston, and she is going to be Winston’s great love interest. We are shown the promise of this early on when Winston relates how his passion during the two-minute hate session oddly refocused itself from the politically violent hatred of Emmanuel Goldstein to the sexually depraved hatred of the comely brunette sitting behind him, sitting so close to him:

Suddenly, by the sort of violent effort with which one wrenches one’s head away from the pillow in a nightmare, Winston succeeded in transferring his hatred from the face on the screen to the dark-haired girl behind him. Vivid, beautiful hallucinations flashed through his mind. He would flog her to death with a rubber truncheon. He would tie her naked to a stake and shoot her full of arrows like Saint Sebastian. He would ravish her and cut her throat at the moment of climax. Better than before, moreover, he realized why it was that he hated her. He hated her because she was young and pretty and sexless, because he wanted to go to bed with her and would never do so, because round her sweep and supple waist, which seemed to ask you to encircle it with your arm, there was only the odious scarlet sash, aggressive symbol of chastity.

When it comes to the great romances of the literary imagination, the ones that light up the night sky like the aurora borealis, but only to burn up in tragic death, I do not hear of Winston and Julia being lined up with Romeo and Juliet, Aeneas and Dido, Antony and Cleopatra, or perhaps even Bonnie and Clyde, but I believe Orwell does add to this great pantheon of doomed love.

1984 (1,1) The Dark-Haired Girl

Then there is my favorite character, Monk being Monk. She comes to the same two-minute hate session with Winston. Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine:

She was a bold-looking girl of about twenty-seven, with thick dark hair, a freckled face, and swift, athletic movements. A narrow scarlet sash, emblem of the Junior Anti-Sex League, was wound several times around the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to bring out the shapeliness of her hips. Winston had disliked her from the very first moment of seeing her, he knew the reason. It was because of the atmosphere of hockey fields and cold baths ad community hikes and general clean-mindedness which she managed to carry about with her.

At first, he hates her, fears her, her apparent sexlessness and rigid political orthodoxy, taking her to be one of Big Brother’s righteous pets. Of course, we know better. She is a rebel in her soul, perhaps even more so than Winston, and she is going to be Winston’s great love interest. We are shown the promise of this early on when Winston relates how his passion during the two-minute hate session oddly refocused itself from the politically violent hatred of Emmanuel Goldstein to the sexually depraved hatred of the comely brunette sitting behind him, sitting so close to him:

Suddenly, by the sort of violent effort with which one wrenches one’s head away from the pillow in a nightmare, Winston succeeded in transferring his hatred from the face on the screen to the dark-haired girl behind him. Vivid, beautiful hallucinations flashed through his mind. He would flog her to death with a rubber truncheon. He would tie her naked to a stake and shoot her full of arrows like Saint Sebastian. He would ravish her and cut her throat at the moment of climax. Better than before, moreover, he realized why it was that he hated her. He hated her because she was young and pretty and sexless, because he wanted to go to bed with her and would never do so, because round her sweep and supple waist, which seemed to ask you to encircle it with your arm, there was only the odious scarlet sash, aggressive symbol of chastity.

When it comes to the great romances of the literary imagination, the ones that light up the night sky like the aurora borealis, but only to burn up in tragic death, I do not hear of Winston and Julia being lined up with Romeo and Juliet, Aeneas and Dido, Antony and Cleopatra, or perhaps even Bonnie and Clyde, but I believe Orwell does add to this great pantheon of doomed love.