“Writing is a form of personal freedom. It frees us from the mass identity we see in the making all around us. In the end, writers will write not to be outlaw heroes of some underculture but mainly to save themselves, to survive as individuals.”—Don Delillo (via wordpainting)
I’ve always loved Michael Kors’ genius references on Project Runway. Today, someone on Gawker (who clearly gets me) posted a video montage of some of his best descriptions, including but not limited to:
"I mean, she’s kind of like a Voodoo princess in Hell…"
"I keep thinking it’s kind of like a sad chicken… a moulting, gray chicken…"
"It’s like a disco straight-jacket, it doesn’t make any sense…"
"She looked, to me, like barefoot-Appalachian-‘Lil Abner Barbie…"
“If you can enjoy a ride in the subway, or standing on the corner watching people as much as going to the theater, if not more, if you think more about people than you do of yourself, if you see more than arms and legs and hands when you meet a person—then you should be able to write.”—Edna Ferber
“Journalism can never be silent: that is its greatest virtue and its greatest fault. It must speak, and speak immediately, while the echoes of wonder, the claims of triumph and the signs of horror are still in the air.”—Henry Anatole Grunwald
I love how so many Jezebel commenters thought this was either a fake or ~*~lol~*~ something specifically planted as a racist commentary. Why is it so hard to believe that kids grow up thinking like this? On both sides of the fence (because of course, race comes down to being black and white, by the way). Anyone who rode the public school bus to elementary school in Georgia knows what I’m talking about.
“I don’t ask writers about their work habits. I really don’t care. Joyce Carol Oates says somewhere that when writers ask each other what time they start working and when they finish and how much time they take for lunch, they’re actually trying to find out, “Is he as crazy as I am?” I don’t need that question answered.”—Phillip Roth (via wordpainting)
“Oh the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person, having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are — chaff and grain together — certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and with the breath of kindness blow the rest away." -George Eliot (pen name of Mary Ann Evans), novelist (1819-1880)”—