S (2024-12-20 20:22:27):
S
O (2024-12-19 22:49:53):
M
Le Tissier (2024-12-08 17:59:54):
Let's make a storwy
Forever
Domenico Scarlatti (2024-11-17 16:54:30):
Sonata in F minor, K.466 (L.118)
M (2024-11-08 18:38:29):
Marat/Sade
Duns (2024-11-07 21:08:52):
I was told to
get tae fuck
Duns (2024-11-07 21:05:56):
I spoke to some working class men the other day
Claude (2024-11-06 20:02:29):
Il y a peu de vérité dans lhonnêteté. Nous ne voulons pas la vérité. Échoue là où Knausgaard réussit.
J. Swoll (2024-11-06 18:22:47):
Love wins. Genitalia wins. Nihilism wins. Winning wins. The homeless have yet to see any Koreeda films.
Bruegel (2024-10-31 22:30:51):
Om dat de werelt is soe ongetru
Daer om gha ic in den ru
Cian (2024-10-30 18:00:13):
Time is a flat circle
Guido Ceronetti (2024-10-29 11:05:10):
La domanda piu indiscreta,
piu insolente, piu insoffribile,
e la piu comune anche,
la piu poliglotta, la piu persecutoria,
al telefono e faccia a faccia,
la domanda che mette alla tortura
chi ama la verita
perche la si formula
per avere in risposta
una miserablissima bugia
e: "Come stai?"
Diya ad-din Muhammad (2024-10-28 16:19:34):
t~st
Listen to the voice memo:
M (2024-10-27 21:58:49):
Grass !
priapus (2024-10-27 20:00:00):
i get it bro, i get it
Jon (2024-10-27 19:46:47):
I have recently been convalescing after a rather serious case of Trazodone induced priapism. Thankfully it did not require amputation. However I do fear that I may never fully recover from the humiliation of it all. It is hard to appreciate the little things when you are permanently erect.
Woah (2024-10-27 18:40:02):
Gnarly, dude
Siomn (2024-10-27 18:27:28):
The world is a map to be conquered. Life is a game to be won. I sunk my morning hot toddy with milk and resolved to secretly poison my state mandated companion, an ailing white Pomeranian who suffered from a lack of exercise and a diet consisting almost entirely of leftover charcuterie. It was the only way to ensure my precious (and now illegal) solitude henceforth.
Simon (2024-10-27 17:45:14):
I'm going to Turkey soon
Simon (2024-10-27 17:32:06):
Did you do anything nice over the weekend?
Aidan (2024-10-26 18:02:07):
good work chaps. great reads.
Signs and Symbols (2024-10-25 20:40:26):
For the fourth time in as many years, they were confronted with the problem of what birthday present to take to a young man who was incurably deranged in his mind. Desires he had none. Man-made objects were to him either hives of evil, vibrant with a malignant activity that he alone could perceive, or gross comforts for which no use could be found in his abstract world. After eliminating a number of articles that might offend him or frighten him (anything in the gadget line, for instance, was taboo), his parents chose a dainty and innocent trifle—a basket with ten different fruit jellies in ten little jars.
Rainald Goetz (2024-10-25 18:31:49):
It strikes me—so goes the objection of the neutral but sympathetic observer—that you lack patience, and when I say you, I don’t mean you, but rather, actually, myself, as though you were tumbling from scene to scene, image to image, as though you had neither eyes nor breath with which to linger longer than the briefest moments—it strikes me that you wish for too much all at once and that therefore, naturally, you achieve nothing. Instead of getting lost in perspectival games, you should bring material to the fore—accent on material—more material. Who cares about that, I ask you, about art (pronounced boorishly) or worse still, artistic ambition, at a moment when the question of the artistic character of art—accent on art, always with that boorish pronunciation, ironic, of course, arrrt instead of art—at a moment when this question has not simply grown uninteresting, but in fact has up and died—pause after died—when it is dead, inexistent, understand me, this question is over—voice rising on over—the end. What is interesting in a moment like this one is material, an ethnography of the everyday, patient and precise, proceeding from the admission that we ourselves have become the savages, because no one can go any further with any kind of art the way they did yesterday, or let me correct myself, one can go further, but it just isn’t interesting. What is interesting—slowly I am beginning to see myself like a prayer wheel uttering the same thing over and over, but you sit there wide-eyed, as if you didn’t believe it—what is interesting is material, I won’t say raw material—accent on the raw—unworked, as it were, not that, but rather the material that unfolds in the course of patient and exacting analysis, patient and exacting, I repeat, which then opens on to a grounded interpretation, where grounded is taken to mean scientifically grounded—accent on the scientifically—and not just adduced from some hunch based on intuition or worldview, which opens on to an interpretation of this sort. For this reason, it seems to me, you should bring more material to the fore, careful now, though—first a deep breath in, then slowly a breath out to close.
I waver as to whether, concerning the neutral, sympathetic observer, who, against his nature, has let himself be dragged into a harangue—anacoluthon—whether I should simply let the matter rest as it now stands, with these rhetorically useful confrontations, I waver, for the moment, at least, as to whether I shouldn’t answer him straightaway. No, I’ve decided I’m not going to do it. Particularly as he is bound, even if it should call thoroughly into question his, the observer’s, thesis—voice quite loud when saying call into question, heavily accented – now to resume the sentence from the beginning: particularly as he is bound to understand every phrase to come as a confirmation of his thesis. Including the present one, it goes without saying. But I consider there—no, open parentheses—now then: but I consider there to be a difference between whether he, the observer, is bound to understand a sentence that refutes his thesis as a confirmation of his thesis or whether the sentence in which he, the observer, sees himself validated illustrates the pure formal mechanics and inevitability of this conclusion, illustrates, at least, even if it does not yet clarify—accent on the clarify—and so now, for the time being, closed parentheses. Whatever argument I put forth, the observer will view it as the continuation rather than the relinquishment of those perspectival games, which are destined to bore him, the observer, and never to interest him, and which he has dubbed, contemptuously, aaartistic ambition. It goes without saying that he, the observer, is merely one of those imaginary figures, the entire dialogue only an invention, an invention of mine invented with the intention of managing to adumbrate one of those theoretical questions concerning which I would otherwise prefer to be silent, for written self-reflection is one of those grand avenues of literature that life has swept bare, and that I have undertaken not to set foot on, and I affirm—just a moment, first I will note down here this interjection—that it may well be the neutral, sympathetic observer speaking, and I affirm the contradiction contained in the foregoing sentence without its paining me in the least.
And so, after some vacillation in regard to the thoughts expressed, which were firmly interlocking, I had resolved—why now the pluperfect all of a sudden—baffled question, dry but courteous answer: well now, you have to imagine that I am telling this to you at a great remove—accent on telling, pronunciation draaawn out—as I was saying before, I had then, incidentally in opposition to my original intention, resolved, as I said before, to give a brief answer, at the very least. And that was the only thing he, the observer, managed to hear; any thinking about my own vacillation, let me add, I kept prudently to myself; the one thing that I did say, this short little sentence, this amicably redundant imperative, I shall insert here parenthetically after having offered you a running elucidation of myself and the text in this passage, this short sentence: Just you wait and see, and since it was so short, I repeated it: Just you wait and see. Naturally, with this you, it was him, the neutral, sympathetic observer I was addressing, but at the same time, in contrast to the beginning, when I was the one intended, here too this means you—open parenthesis, this conclusion is also available unrhymed—open brackets, but rhymes you see as it pleases me, closed brackets—in case you don’t care to get caught up in this sort of shenanigans—in brackets after shenanigans colloquial—please strike all the words after you and please substitute a period for the comma—open brackets, it would very much displease me were this comma to just hang there in the air, closed brackets—or if you have opted for the rhyme, please strike the entire parenthetical section, from open parenthesis to closed parenthesis—close parenthesis.
The Seafarer (2024-10-24 21:52:02):
May I for my own self song's truth reckon, Journey's jargon, how I in harsh days Hardship endured oft.
Bitter breast-cares have I abided,
Known on my keel many a care's hold,
And dire sea-surge, and there I oft spent Narrow nightwatch nigh the ship's head
While she tossed close to cliffs. Coldly afflicted, My feet were by frost benumbed.
Cian (2024-10-24 12:18:15):
Gödel developed an obsessive fear of being poisoned, and would eat only food prepared by his wife Adele. Adele was hospitalized beginning in late 1977, and in her absence Gödel refused to eat; he weighed 29 kilograms (65 lb) when he died of malnutrition and inanition caused by personality disturbance in Princeton Hospital on January 14, 1978. He was buried in Princeton Cemetery. Adele died in 1981.
Cian (2024-10-24 10:52:33):
Richard Dawkins: Are you saying Jesus really did die for our sins? I mean, do you believe that? And do you believe that as a fact? That Jesus died for our sins?
*cut*
Soulja (2024-10-23 19:24:10):
She make it clap
M (2024-10-23 18:18:49):
I am so full of my dead, no else can die, for there is no more room.
thanatos (2024-10-23 02:08:29):
all i thnk about is death these days
Aidan (2024-10-21 03:09:37):
Can Trakl, Celan, M, and Duns please get in touch with me.
Georg Trakl (2024-10-20 13:43:29):
Untergang
An Karl Borromaeus Heinrich
Über den weißen Weiher
Sind die wilden Vögel fortgezogen.
Am Abend weht von unseren Sternen ein eisiger Wind.
Über unsere Gräber
Beugt sich die zerbrochene Stirne der Nacht.
Unter Eichen schaukeln wir auf einem silbernen Kahn.
Immer klingen die weißen Mauern der Stadt.
Unter Dornenbogen
O mein Bruder klimmen wir blinde Zeiger gen Mitternacht.
Paul Celan (2024-10-20 13:33:05):
Wahre Poesie ist antibiographisch. Die Heimat des Dichters ist sein Gedicht und verändert sich von Gedicht zu Gedicht. Die Entfernungen sind die alten, ewigen: unendlich wie der Kosmos, in dem sich jedes Gedicht als „winziger“ Stern zu behaupten versucht. Unendlich auch wie der Abstand zwischen dem eigenen Ich und dem eigenen Du: Von beiden Seiten, von beiden Polen aus wird die Brücke gebaut: In der Mitte, auf halbem Weg, wo der Trägermast erwartet wird, von oben oder von unten, ist der Ort des Gedichts . Von oben: unsichtbar und unsicher. Von unten: aus dem Abgrund der Hoffnung für die ferne, zukunftsferne Verwandtschaft.
Paul Celan (2024-10-20 13:29:38):
Denn das Gedicht steht nicht außerhalb der Zeit. Es stimmt zwar, dass es das Unendliche beansprucht und versucht, über die Zeit hinweg zu greifen – aber quer, nicht darüber hinaus.
M (2024-10-19 21:29:52):
Vor Feuerschlünden. Erfahrung mit Georg Trakls Gedicht
Cian (2024-10-18 19:40:53):
This is mental
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uiWlKhVsUNg
Duns II (2024-10-18 19:11:48):
Of course, he is not actually a lemon when he cries. Nor has the world really gone to shit. However, his rebuttal could have been that it is only his perception of the shitty, relative to his perception of the non-shitty, which makes the world seem shitty to him. The world is what it is. But he does not really want an answer. He wants to be either sad or confused. So I told him to start writing. And I told him that if his writing seems shit to remember that everything is relative.
Duns (2024-10-18 18:31:31):
My friend always declaims that the world has gone to shit. To which I say it is all relative. He then asks me: relative to what exactly? And I am forced to reply: something else.
He also says that when he cries he feels like a lemon.
Abelardus (2024-10-18 16:54:41):
How may I present a metaphor for what the writer does? Does she, herself, give a metaphor, like a building block with which to understand what is real? There are metaphors in reality. Reality itself is a metaphor. By this, I don’t mean something we use in order to compare and contrast differing ways and hows of the real world as it appears to us. I mean that, at base, reality has the structure of the metaphor. When I look at a piece of honeycomb, comparing it to an unfinished building, whose equally rubrical, half-finished form puts me in mind of one thing they must either be or in which they mutually partake, should I maybe not just argue that that which has some form X in the world is not related to some essence of that X? Is it not clearer to say that X is neither a stand-alone thing, nor something made between two others, in virtue of the fact that when I come upon X (such as I might in purely abstract terms) I am at last without an explanation for X. It just exists. And the boundaries, so to speak, of its existence do not impart an essence, but only what may be called a fact. It is the irreducibility of this “state of affairs” which makes it that X is, like reality, a metaphor, but only for itself.
The honeycomb is the honeycomb. What structure I may find between it and anything else is indeed interesting, likely exceeding either. But, the point is that in their final reference, they do not work with respect to something more fundamental, that is not at the same time more metaphorical. The X probably has a name, like geometry. When I go to the end of geometry, however, what do I find? Another shape, or some relationship to algebra. At which point do we say that no matter how far we go, we seem to come upon fundamental structures we are obliged to accept we cannot explain (with reference to something else)? This may seem like the opposite of a metaphor, but this is indeed the point: since it doesn’t explain anything, it remains as the mystery which it is. There is one kind of mystery which says, go further, and another which says, the question = answer. Formulating the question is crucial, but so is accepting the answer.
M (2024-10-13 13:11:24):
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FXrPmJCT9nc
Aidan (2024-10-08 15:31:11):
it seems like anglo franco relations are really at an all time low :(
King Henry V (2024-10-07 14:26:58):
Can someone teach these piss ants and frogs to stop using contractions? The French is hard enough to read as it is.
M (2024-10-05 18:17:05):
Wittgenstein was privileged, I have imposter syndrome, and I hate bougie things. 2024 Goldsmiths Prize.
Cian (2024-10-04 21:23:08):
In pious times, ere priest-craft did begin,
Before polygamy was made a sin;
When man, on many, multipli'd his kind,
Ere one to one was cursedly confin'd:
When Nature prompted, and no Law deni'd
Promiscuous use of concubine and bride;
Then, Israel's monarch, after Heaven's own heart,
His vigorous warmth did variously impart
To wives and slaves: and, wide as his command,
Scatter'd his Maker's image through the land.
Claude (2024-10-04 21:12:25):
Pissant, lis s'il te plaît L'Amour et l'Occident de Rougemont et finissons-en
Diya' ad-din Muhammad (2024-10-04 12:57:07):
s
Cian (2024-10-03 20:46:36):
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zSLsTf2TH-Y
Cian (2024-10-03 20:35:18):
Pumped for Gladiator II
Cian (2024-10-03 20:33:55):
Imagine walking through a fog-filled forest with your brothers and hearing the sound of a carynx in the distance
Pissant (2024-10-03 19:58:25):
Ce n'étaient pas mes mots. C'étaient les mots de Chamfort. Une simple observation. Je suis désolé que vous ayez si peu d'estime pour les avoir postés ici, mais je n'ai aucune envie de vous débattre de leur contenu ou de mon prétendu défaitisme gestuel. Au contraire, vos mots en sont un exemple. Et ainsi de suite... Mon objectif supérieur a toujours été de féconder une belle femme qui m'aime. Mais c'est maintenant devenu une réalité banale. Nous avons maintenant nos merveilleux enfants. Je veux qu'ils soient heureux et qu'ils profitent de la vie. Je veux qu'ils tombent amoureux comme je l'ai fait autrefois de leur mère. On ne peut qu'espérer. Maintenant, j'insère un gode vibrant relativement petit dans son anus pendant les rapports sexuels et elle tremble de plaisir de manière incontrôlable. Un plaisir que je ne suis plus capable de lui donner moi-même. Bien sûr, mon pénis ne vibre pas avec une telle intensité. C'est humiliant d'être usurpé par une machine. De réaliser que ma femme est mieux servie dans la chambre à coucher par une tige en acier inoxydable. Il suffit que ce soit moi qui la tienne. Cependant, vous n'êtes seul qu'en l'absence d'un compagnon. Sans aucun compagnon pour parler, vous ne faites que rêver. C'est peut-être là votre but supérieur. Réaliser votre rêve de ne jamais vous sentir seul. Être aimé. Mais c'est banal pour moi maintenant. Je ne suis plus amoureux de l'amour. L'amour, c'est l'acceptation. L'amour, c'est permettre à nos fils et à nos filles de vivre une vie de dégénérescence. C'est un acte de lâcher prise. Tout comme il est normal de se sentir triste parfois. Vous ne devriez pas nécessairement vous en vouloir. Je suppose que c'est une question de qui vous voulez être, de comment vous voulez agir et de qui vous voulez aimer. Et ainsi de suite... Je travaillerai pour le bonheur de ma famille parce que je l'aime.
King Henry V (2024-10-03 13:07:45):
Can any of these frogs even actually read English?
mcgilchrist (2024-10-03 02:07:09):
we cannot write because our right hemispheres are not active. we have no sense of irony or style. no sense of purpose or of higher powers. we don't even believe. we don't want to. nothing we says comes true any more.
sumsare (2024-10-03 02:06:09):
I quote now from the gospel of wikipeida. During his first visit to England in 1499, he studied or taught at the University of Oxford. There is no record of him gaining any degree. Erasmus was particularly impressed by the Bible teaching of John Colet, who pursued a style more akin to the church fathers than the Scholastics. Through the influence of the humanist John Colet, his interests turned towards theology.[52] Other distinctive features of Colet's thought that may have influenced Erasmus are his pacifism,[53] reform-mindedness,[54] anti-Scholasticism and pastoral esteem for the sacrament of Confession.[55]: 94
mrbugger (2024-10-03 02:01:30):
as to piss ant and its comment. the only thousand opposed interests present here are the many and ceaseless, tired complaints in my soul I would bear against your begrudging attitude towards the world if it were not so repellant an undertaking to me to even dignify in addressing it, that which I consider to be a merely gestural defeatism without substance or sincerity. in other words, bugger off.
sumsare (2024-10-03 01:57:36):
Shipwrecked am I, and lost, mid waters chill. this is a quotation from Erasmus. it is where I begin tonight. terribly sad and alone, it would seem that the whole world is ignorant to its task. no one knows, least of all me, how to become anyone or how to do anything. we notice this, and yet we do nothing about it. we dont want to share in great movements. dont want to take up some aim in politics or the church. life is very sad these days. it is hard to believe it is ever going to get better.
Pissant (2024-09-29 20:55:25):
La société, ce qu'on appelle le monde, n'est que la lutte de mille petits intérêts opposés, une lutte éternelle de toutes les vanités qui se croisent, se choquent, tour à tour blessées, humiliées l'une par l'autre, qui expient le lendemain, dans le dégoût d'une défaite, le triomphe de la veille.
Victore (2024-09-29 14:22:29):
cian/pissant/claude je vous adore déjà
Cian (2024-09-28 16:29:26):
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FlxzzLSoO3g
Pissant (2024-09-28 14:09:47):
"C'est une pente glissante de Michelangelo à Zuckerberg." - G.W.F. Hegel, 1789
Claude (2024-09-28 13:54:43):
Marx aurait adoré cuisiner au levain
Aidan (2024-09-27 11:28:37):
...
Victore (2024-09-27 11:27:34):
This is a decent tree omg
Aidan (2024-09-26 19:56:56):
a tree
Margery (2024-09-26 19:31:10):
how many names are there in the world?
Aidan (2024-09-26 19:30:41):
so, I guess the lesson is do not try to write contractions
Aidan (2024-09-26 19:30:01):
People perhaps need to be for forthcoming about who they are. Which doesn't necessarily mean they have to tell us who they are. They just need to be who they are. And who are they? I don't know. Might also make sense for all of us to wear masks of some kind. Something more ironic to that. More human.
Victore (2024-09-26 19:21:37):
test photo
Victore (2024-09-26 19:10:48):
like in blackandwhite?
Diya' ad-din Muhammad (2024-09-26 15:50:34):
Invert the design.
foruno (2024-09-25 02:53:39):
uno
Aidan (2024-09-24 18:17:29):
I hate victor
Vivelafrance1789 (2024-09-24 18:15:54):
Bonjour a tous
Urmom69 (2024-09-24 15:36:11):
This website sucks
Aidan (2024-09-23 21:46:36):
Fixed the bug that repeats comments. Don’t refresh the page unless you want the comment to repost.
Aidan (2024-09-23 21:25:10):
the day was grey, like it was lost somewhere. she looked up at the sky, upon the bleak edges of cloister arches, upon nothing. she had been received with some kind of reverence, and pity, though the latter made her somehow happy, the former made her ashamed. there was something so pitiable to her, she knew, and had she had any other sense of her days, something less purposeless, she might have wandered less and yearned less and moved between fewer cloisters, but seen the simple road and been afraid. there was that desire to exist, and her days in the countryside were like some sick and grey intestine, which grew, and in which she lived as ever within nothing. she felt she could do anything, that she saw through the people who became like puddles, and only she remained to see as reality became a cloud.
Aidan (2024-09-23 21:24:05):
the day was grey, like it was lost somewhere. she looked up at the sky, upon the bleak edges of cloister arches, upon nothing. she had been received with some kind of reverence, and pity, though the latter made her somehow happy, the former made her ashamed. there was something so pitiable to her, she knew, and had she had any other sense of her days, something less purposeless, she might have wandered less and yearned less and moved between fewer cloisters, but seen the simple road and been afraid. there was that desire to exist, and her days in the countryside were like some sick and grey intestine, which grew, and in which she lived as ever within nothing. she felt she could do anything, that she saw through the people who became like puddles, and only she remained to see as reality became a cloud.
H (2024-09-23 18:45:53):
Shout out to Nadia I just had the most magical time with her in Lyon <3
H (2024-09-23 18:36:45):
Shout out to Nadia I just had the most magical time with her in Lyon <3
H (2024-09-23 18:35:46):
Which sorcerer created this
H (2024-09-23 18:35:23):
I can’t believe this
What is happening
Aidan (2024-09-23 17:41:00):
the day was grey, like it was lost somewhere. she looked up at the sky, upon the bleak edges of cloister arches, upon nothing. she had been received with some kind of reverence, and pity, though the latter made her somehow happy, the former made her ashamed. there was something so pitiable to her, she knew, and had she had any other sense of her days, something less purposeless, she might have wandered less and yearned less and moved between fewer cloisters, but seen the simple road and been afraid. there was that desire to exist, and her days in the countryside were like some sick and grey intestine, which grew, and in which she lived as ever within nothing. she felt she could do anything, that she saw through the people who became like puddles, and only she remained to see as reality became a cloud.
margery (2024-09-23 17:40:11):
And, as thei cam be a cros, hyr husbond sett hym down
undyr the cros, clepyng hys wyfe unto hym and seyng this wordys onto hir, "Margery,
grawnt me my desyr"
Aidan (2024-09-23 17:39:21):
wagwan?
Elias (2024-09-23 17:21:06):
Testtesttest
victor (2024-09-23 17:17:40):
test