Sunday, August 28, 2011
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Source: Thomas De Quincey, "Second Paper on Murder
If once a man indulges himself in murder, very soon he comes to think little of robbing; and from robbing he comes next to drinking and Sabbath-breaking, and from that to incivility and procrastination. Once begin upon this downward path, you never know where you are to stop. Many a man has dated his ruin from some murder or other that perhaps he thought little of at the time.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Sunday, August 21, 2011
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The best portion of a good man's life is his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.
William Wordsworth
The best portion of a good man's life is his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.
William Wordsworth
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Monday, August 15, 2011
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"I think how little we can hold in mind, how everything is constantly lapsing into oblivion, with every extinguished life, how the world is, as it were, draining itself, in that the history of countless places and objects which themselves have no power of memory is never heard, never described or passed on."
W.G.Sebald
"I think how little we can hold in mind, how everything is constantly lapsing into oblivion, with every extinguished life, how the world is, as it were, draining itself, in that the history of countless places and objects which themselves have no power of memory is never heard, never described or passed on."
W.G.Sebald
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Monday, July 04, 2011
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Ernest Hemingway:
Whining is for women; whiskey is for men.
Ernest Hemingway:
"An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk to spend time with fools."
"To drink is nothing," Hemingway proclaimed in "For Whom the Bell Tolls." "It is to be drunk that is important."
F. Scott Fitzgerald said, "First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you."
Alcohol takes years off your life, but "it "always makes you happy. Hemingway.
Martinis will make you "feel civilized," and will make the people you hate seem tolerable.
Drinking means lying to your sugar mama, but if you feel guilty for deceiving a female -- or if you feel guilty for anything -- you are definitely not drinking enough.
"To drink is nothing," "It is to be drunk that is important."
Friday, July 01, 2011
Monday, June 27, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Sunday, June 05, 2011
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Every morning she would appear at the bakery precisely at ten A.M. with a shopping list purportedly for the three women who lived with her, but actually it was all for her--and most of the workers at the bakery knew it. I sat at the small cafe table, eying her huge ass, her mountainous breasts, pushing at her holey knitted sweater, and watched as it rode up from her waist over her belly.
Her eyes would widen as the counter girl placed a prune danish into the bottom of the bag, then a almond cheese danish, and a brioche, at last a croissant, some liquefied butter appearing as it was squeezed slightly to fit it into the bag. Usually at this time she would push some hair off her forehead and then, after she paid for the baked goods she would go behind the shed to have her four pastries out of sight. She daintily nibbled at first, but finally devoured all, using her pudgy fingers to push them into her mouth in a last desperate moment, determined to finish before being discovered.
_______________
Her eyes revealed a no longer suppressed, ever present sorrow, a sadness drawn out of bitterness. Of course, I was drawn to her.
_________________________---
I have come to a conclusion: My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.
Vladimir Nabokov
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Every morning she would appear at the bakery precisely at ten A.M. with a shopping list purportedly for the three women who lived with her, but actually it was all for her--and most of the workers at the bakery knew it. I sat at the small cafe table, eying her huge ass, her mountainous breasts, pushing at her holey knitted sweater, and watched as it rode up from her waist over her belly.
Her eyes would widen as the counter girl placed a prune danish into the bottom of the bag, then a almond cheese danish, and a brioche, at last a croissant, some liquefied butter appearing as it was squeezed slightly to fit it into the bag. Usually at this time she would push some hair off her forehead and then, after she paid for the baked goods she would go behind the shed to have her four pastries out of sight. She daintily nibbled at first, but finally devoured all, using her pudgy fingers to push them into her mouth in a last desperate moment, determined to finish before being discovered.
Her eyes revealed a no longer suppressed, ever present sorrow, a sadness drawn out of bitterness. Of course, I was drawn to her.
_________________--
I have come to a conclusion: My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.
Vladimir Nabokov
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