“I have noticed that when all the lights are on, people tend to talk about what they are doing – their outer lives. Sitting round in candlelight or firelight, people start to talk about how they are feeling – their inner lives. They speak subjectively, they argue less, there are longer pauses. To sit alone without any electric light is curiously creative. I have my best ideas at dawn or at nightfall, but not if I switch on the lights – then I start thinking about projects, deadlines, demands, and the shadows and shapes of the house become objects, not suggestions, things that need to done, not a background to thought.”—By Jeanette Winterson
“There will be time in the long days and nights,
stunned by the sun or driven by the stars,
to unwind your spool of life.
You will learn again what you always knew—
the wind sweeps everything away.”—Theo Dorgan, from “Ithacafor,” in Answering Back, edited by Carol Ann Duffy (Picador, 2007)
“Whatever you now find weird, ugly, uncomfortable and nasty about a new medium will surely become its signature. CD distortion, the jitteriness of digital video, the crap sound of 8-bit - all of these will be cherished and emulated as soon as they can be avoided. It’s the sound of failure: so much modern art is the sound of things going out of control, of a medium pushing to its limits and breaking apart. The distorted guitar sound is the sound of something too loud for the medium supposed to carry it. The blues singer with the cracked voice is the sound of an emotional cry too powerful for the throat that releases it. The excitement of grainy film, of bleached-out black and white, is the excitement of witnessing events too momentous for the medium assigned to record them.”— Brian Eno, A Year With Swollen Appendices
“Rock and Roll is imperfection, and flaws, and four or five or six or eight people playing together, and it’s not gonna line up. It’s gonna be a little fucked up. It should be, you know human beings aren’t perfect.”—Chris Shiflett - Back and Forth
“Jazz is not a what, it is a how. If it were a what, it would be static, never growing. The how is that the music comes from the moment, it is spontaneous, it exists at the time it is created. And anyone who makes music according to this method conveys to me an element that makes his music jazz.”—Bill Evans
I have never seen them again.
Maybe I will, someday, somewhere.
Maybe I won’t.
It doesn’t matter.]
is that, when I saw them,
I saw them
as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.”—Mary Oliver, from “Snow Geese” (via the-final-sentence)
“Jerry had one of the most beautiful minds I’ve ever known. He would make connections between disparate thoughts and make them fit in harmonious ways. And his music was a lot like that also. It was paradoxical. He had that shit-between-the-toes, barnyard, down-home funkiness, and at the same time he could play the farthest-out spacey shit. He was always a source of wonder. When he played, it would be this endless stream of glorious melody.”—Phil Lesh
“I hold the most archaic values on earth… the fertility of the soul, the magic of the animals, the power-vision in solitude. The love and ecstasy of the dance, the common work of the tribe.”—Gary Snyder
“Far in the distance the tugboat whistled; its call passed the bridge, one more arch, then another, the lock, another bridge, farther and farther… It was summoning all the barges on the river, every last one, and the whole city and the sky and the countryside, and ourselves, to carry us all away, the Seine too-and that would be the end of us.”—Louis-Ferdinand Céline, from Journey to the End of the Night, trans. Ralph Manheim (with thanks to copypastewrite)
“there’s always a little joy, and even beauty
lies close at hand, beneath the bark
of every hour, in the quiet heart of concentration,
and another person hides in each of us —
universal, strong, invincible.”—Adam Zagajewski, from “Three Angels”, translated by Clare Cavanagh, with thanks to litverve
“‘Twas far too strange and wonderful for sadness;
sharpening, by degrees his appetite
To dive into the deepest. Dark, nor light
nor bright, nor sombre wholly,
But mingled up; a gleaming melancholy.”—John Keats, from “Endymion”.