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Pale Horse, Pale Rider

for such a cripplingly insecure person, I have an absurd superiority complex

it’s almost like I suffer from mental illness!

But still. Still bless me anyway. I want more life. I can’t help myself. I do. I’ve lived through such terrible times and there are people who live through much worse. But you see them living anyway. When they’re more spirit than body, more sores than skin, when they’re burned and in agony, when flies lay eggs in the corners of the eyes of their children - they live. Death usually has to take life away. I don’t know if that’s just the animal. I don’t know if it’s not braver to die, but I recognize the habit; the addiction to being alive. So we live past hope. If I can find hope anywhere, that’s it, that’s the best I can do. It’s so much not enough. It’s so inadequate. But still bless me anyway. I want more life.

Angels in America (via mmhm01)

wait so the best thing of all time this really shitty theater professor at my school (who is like, totally revered but shouldn’t be because he’s a hack) came up to my other professor who is a genius and doesn’t work in theater but knows so much more and my other prof who is this amazing modernist lit prof who everyone hates but they shouldn’t because he is AMAZING— anyways hack theater prof runs up and says “YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS NEW PLAY! IT’S CALLED ANGELS IN AMERICA! IT’S THE GAY ILLIAD OF OUR AGE!”

 my two profs reply, IN UNISON: “the illiad is the gay illiad of our age”

(via slizplays)

tomwingfields:

okay, how can you NOT wanna sleep with young sondheim
theparisreview:

“A child had thirteen fingers on each hand and his aunts immediately put him to playing the harp, something that made good use of the extras and he completed the course in half the time needed by poor pentadigitates.
“After that the child came to play in such a way that there was no score worthy of him. When he began to give concerts, the amount of music that he concentrated in that time and space with his twenty-six fingers was so extraordinary that the audience couldn’t keep up and was always behind, so that when the young artisto was coming to the end of The Fountain of Arethusa (a transcription) the poor people were still in the Tambourin Chinois (an arrangement). This naturally created horrible confusions, but everyone recognized that the child played like an angel.”
—Julio Cortázar, from “Feuilletons”
Art: Cover of Cortázar’s End of the Game.