Céline: "So I sacrificed everything, because, don't forget this: the real inspiration is death. If you risk nothing, you have nothing. You have to pay. What is done for free smells like gratis, and stinks of gratis. Right now there are only gratuitous writers. Gratis things..."
“I tried to cure my doujinshi-stimfapping addiction by reading Infinite Jest”
“I dreamt that I made my UFC debut to Jesus' Tod at the empty, unlit ruins of the Basilica of Maxentius... my opponent was the daimôn of mere life...”
“Who was commentating the fight?”
“Adolf Hitler”
This world selects, above all else, for domesticity. Every definition of merit we have relies ultimately upon claustrophilia. Every institutional route is a prison sentence.
Every time I meet a new foid, I drift to Montaigne's story of a man on the gallows who was offered a young bride to save his life, and after glancing at her for a second, he turned to the hangman and said: “Hang me! Hang me! She limps.”
"A normal life" means total acquiescence to φιλοψυχία—the love of life—that lowly instinct of a slave cowardly clinging to existence by supplicating for asylum in bare survival, content in the petty pleasures of a lifetime of humiliation.
I have never understood the petty rage with which most people repudiate and besmirch their past love, when it is generally the only sincere feeling that has redeemed their flat and complacent existence.
Céline: “For me, you only had the right to die when you had a good tale to tell. To enter in, you tell your story and pass on. That’s what Death on the Installment Plan is, symbolically, the reward of life being death . . . it's not the good Lord who rules, it's the devil. Man.”
I've been away from my country and fellow countrymen for so long that Finnish feels foreign on my tongue—sentences that once formed naturally now demand conscious effort to summon from a fading fluency
@_A_Prayer Do you not believe it to be so? Could not such an unnatural impulse become "natural" (habitual, reflexive) over centuries of discipline and breeding?
Now, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I haven't had a drop of alcohol in three weeks, and I'm very keen on drinking vodka straight from the bottle and wandering the city until dawn in celebration of my victory
Got the nod, but it could've gone either way—skilled German opponent... There are those singular moments when one emerges once again from a life of subterranean struggle and toil into the light, and experiences anew one's golden hour of victory and sunshine
Book clubs relegate literature to a worthless exercise of empty sociability, which only appeals to women and fаɡɡоtѕ for whom “reading” means glazing over “reputable works” with a bovine gaze for gossip and public spectacle.