the thing about artists and writers is that we’re all slightly unhinged, chaotic, fueled by coffee and revenge and ambition, and I don’t want my art to be made by machines, I want it to be made by messy people who have hated and loved and panicked like the rest of us.
Guys are saying, “Don’t you *want* the ability to generate art with the push of a button?” but half the joy of a great book or film is that human beings labored and sweated over it, that they poured into it all their horniness and passion and wonder and indignation.
i cannot be chill because the inside of my head will jump from "what should i watch while i eat" to "what if i killed myself" to "i want to go skiing" all while the mario kart coconut mall soundtrack is playing in my head
they should revive Wishbone for adults and send him traveling through the pages of contemporary literary fiction and neglected classics. Wishbone’s The Secret History… Piranesi… a whole season devoted to Proust’s A la recherché du temps perdu
in the coming year we’re doing away with the concept of “cringe.” we’re being our weirdest selves, we’re embracing our nichest obsessions, we’re recovering the passion society tried to shame out of us. ignore the haters. become the exuberant nerd you were born to be.
Toni Morrison's wise admonition against reading fiction to identify:
"If you begin to use your own emotions and your own self in order to inhabit the character, you’re doing them a terrible injustice. . . . The character needs your intelligence, not your confused emotions."