The maker of a sentence launches out into the infinite and builds a road into Chaos and old Night, and is followed by those who hear him with something of wild, creative delight.

Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths 
Of night and light and the half-light;
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

...

You can get so confused
that you’ll start in to race
down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace
and grind on for miles cross weirdish wild space,
headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.
The Waiting Place…

…for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or the waiting around for a Yes or No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.

...

NO! That’s not for you!

Somehow you’ll escape
all that waiting and staying.
You’ll find the bright places
where Boom Bands are playing.

Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.

Paris syndrome...is a transient psychological disorder exhibited by some individuals visiting or vacationing in Paris or elsewhere in Western Europe. It is characterized by a number of psychiatric symptoms such as acute delusional states, hallucinations, feelings of persecution, derealization, depersonalization, anxiety, and also psychosomatic manifestations such as dizziness, tachycardia, sweating, and others...

...

There is a 24-hour help line run by the Japanese embassy to help Japanese tourists suffering from this condition.

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And then one fine morning— So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

On Valentine's Day of 1884, just 36 hours after the birth of their only daughter, Alice, 25-year-old future U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt held his young wife in his arms as she passed away from undiagnosed Bright's disease. Incredibly, just hours before, in the same house, he had already said a final goodbye to his mother, Martha. She had succumbed to Typhoid, aged just 48...

this is his journal entry for that day.

This is a long drive for someone with nothing to think about

Perhaps they were right putting love into books. Perhaps it could not live anywhere else.

When I give, I give myself.

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves 
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

and death i think is no parenthesis

my favorite poem.

There he goes. One of God's own prototypes. A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die.

I have not time. I have not time.

in 1832, a 20 year old frenchman stayed up all night furiously writing. his hot temper had gotten him into a duel over a woman and he knew the odds of him surviving were slim.

so, this young man spent the entire prior night writing his thoughts on all the mathematics that he had in his head. he was no one in particular, rejected multiple times from various academic institutions and with little-to-no formal training.

in his frenzy of sketches, half thoughts, and ideas he wrote alongside the margin over and over 'i have not time.' he completed the odd writings and mailed them off that night.

the next day he was mortally wounded and died shortly at hospital.

in time and by pure chance, his frenzied 60 pages he had mailed off were discovered, and quickly it became apparent, many years later, the brilliance contained in them.

this young man named Galois had single handedly created 'group theory,' a huge advancement and turning point in mathematics. the product of a short life contained in one night's work.

this is my favorite story in mathematics.

Actually I have never seen an average American household. Except on TV.

Muchos años después, frente al pelotón de fusilamiento, el coronel Aureliano Buendía había de recordar aquella tarde remota en que su padre lo llevó a conocer el hielo.

my favorite opening line.

I have a friend who’s an artist and has sometimes taken a view which I don’t agree with very well. He’ll hold up a flower and say "look how beautiful it is," and I’ll agree. Then he says "I as an artist can see how beautiful this is but you as a scientist take this all apart and it becomes a dull thing," and I think that he’s kind of nutty.

First of all, the beauty that he sees is available to other people and to me too, I believe, although I might not be quite as refined aesthetically as he is, I can appreciate the beauty of a flower.

At the same time, I see much more about the flower than he sees. I could imagine the cells in there, the complicated actions inside, which also have a beauty. I mean it’s not just beauty at this dimension, at one centimeter; there’s also beauty at smaller dimensions, the inner structure, also the processes. The fact that the colors in the flower evolved in order to attract insects to pollinate it is interesting; it means that insects can see the color. It adds a question: does this aesthetic sense also exist in the lower forms? Why is it aesthetic? All kinds of interesting questions which the science knowledge only adds to the excitement, the mystery and the awe of a flower. It only adds.

I don’t understand how it subtracts.

This beautiful television has put me, like I said before, in all sorts of situations. I remember being very scared because an Icelandic poet told me that not like in cinemas, where the thing that throws the picture from it just sends light on the screen, but this is different. This is millions and millions of little screens that send light, some sort of electric light, I'm not really sure. But because there are so many of them, and in fact you are watching very many things when you are watching TV. Your head is very busy all the time to calculate and put it all together into one picture. And then because you're so busy doing that, you don't watch very carefully what the program you are watching is really about. So you become hypnotized. So all that's on TV, it just goes directly into your brain and you stop judging it's right or not.

You just swallow and swallow. This is what an Icelandic poet told me.

And I became so scared to television that I always got headaches when I watched it. Then, later on, when I got my Danish book on television, I stopped being afraid because I read the truth, the scientifical truth and it was much better.

You shouldn't let poets lie to you.

The emperor—it is said—sent to you, the one apart, the wretched subject, the tiny shadow that fled far, far from the imperial sun, precisely to you he sent a message from his deathbed. He bade the messenger kneel by his bed, and whispered the message in his ear. So greatly did he cherish it that he had him repeat it into his ear. With a nod of his head he confirmed the accuracy of the messenger’s words. And before the entire spectatorship of his death—all obstructing walls have been torn down and the great figures of the empire stand in a ring upon the broad, soaring exterior stairways—before all these he dispatched the messenger. The messenger set out at once; a strong, an indefatigable man; thrusting forward now this arm, now the other, he cleared a path though the crowd; every time he meets resistance he points to his breast, which bears the sign of the sun; and he moves forward easily, like no other. But the crowds are so vast; their dwellings know no bounds. If open country stretched before him, how he would fly, and indeed you might soon hear the magnificent knocking of his fists on your door. But instead, how uselessly he toils; he is still forcing his way through the chambers of the innermost palace; never will he overcome them; and were he to succeed at this, nothing would be gained: he would have to fight his way down the steps; and were he to succeed at this, nothing would be gained: he would have to cross the courtyard and, after the courtyard, the second enclosing outer palace, and again stairways and courtyards, and again a palace, and so on through thousands of years; and if he were to burst out at last through the outermost gate—but it can never, never happen—before him still lies the royal capital, the middle of the world, piled high in its sediment. Nobody reaches through here, least of all with a message from one who is dead. You, however, sit at your window and dream of the message when evening comes.

my favorite short story.

'...when Zeus had blasted and shattered his swift ship with a bright lightning bolt, out on the wine-dark sea...'

...

...And if some god should strike me, out on the wine-dark sea, I will endure it...

...

...and cast it far out onto the wine-dark sea...

why did homer describe the sea as 'wine dark' not once, not thrice, but dozens of times in the greek classic. isn't the sea obviously blue?

this simple question leads to thoughts on the role of language itself and how it shapes a society. could it be possible that our ability to perceive itself is molded by language? if we lack a word that encompasses a concept, can we become blind to the concept all together?

the visible spectrum is a...well, a spectrum. where we choose to say one color (yellow) and another (orange) begin is arbitrary. one culture can decide on a "larger" area as a singular color and another may differentiate and split regions into two (orange AND yellow). from a young age, we are taught to spot the difference. in essence, one culture could see "deeper" shades of red vs another.

in kay and berlin's work "basic color terms" (1969), the two researchers noticed that human cultures developed colors in a similar progression.

first comes the colors of black and white (all cultures have this).

once those two down, cultures acquire 'red' (probably for biological reasons).

then, if they have red, they can graduate to green or yellow.

next up, is blue for a lucky few societies.

then comes brown.

and off we go to purple, pink, gray...

it makes one wonder. if the greeks 'missed' a color so obvious as blue for the sky and sea, what obvious color/concept could we be missing?

PS

this subject reminds me of a scene in Kieślowski's Decalogue tv series wherein a college professor lectures his class on words and language. the only public video is spanish subtitled from polish. sorry (but so meta).

History doesn't repeat itself, but it does rhyme.

She never moved again. Next day, as the Ferris wheel was being taken apart and the race horses were being loaded into vans and the entertainers were packing up their belongings and driving away in their trailers, Charlotte died.

The Fair Grounds were soon deserted. The sheds and buildings were empty and forlorn. The infield was littered with bottles and trash. Nobody, of the hundreds of people that had visited the Fair, knew that a grey spider had played the most important part of all.

No one was with her when she died.

Thomas Jefferson still survives!

john adam, second united states president and founding father, meant these words as consolation, that the nation would continue under the stewardship of wise men.

unfortunately, thomas jefferson had died a few hours earlier.

both men died on the 4th of July.

It's the Second Law of Thermodynamics: sooner or later everything turns to shit.

all ignorance toboggans into know 
and trudges up to ignorance again: 
but winter's not forever,even snow 
melts;and if spring should spoil the game,what then?

all history's a winter sport or three: 
but were it five,i'd still insist that all 
history is too small for even me; 
for me and you,exceedingly too small.

Swooop (Shrill collective myth) into thy grave 
merely to toil the scale to shrillerness 
per every madge and mabel dick and dave 
--tomorrow is our permanent address

and there's they'll scarcely find us (if they do, 
we'll move away still further: into now 

"What kind of people just sit like that, without a word to say to each other?"

"Why, I think we just found ourselves a transformah!"

Nature does not know extinction; all it knows is transformation.