Long before morning I knew that what I was seeking to discover was a thing I’d always known. That all courage was a form of constancy. That it was always himself that the coward abandoned first. After this all other betrayals came easily.
—"All The Pretty Horses" by Cormac McCarthy (via oeu-vre)
"I’m history! No, I’m mythology! Nah, I don’t care what I am, I’m free!" - Genie
"Canoeists in a Boat Cave"
Photograph by Henry Hamilton Bennett, Wisconsin Dells, c.1890-1895
'Leaping The Chasm' H.H. Bennett, 1886
Bennett took his shot of his son Ashley jumping the five and a half feet from Stand Rock to a ledge and back to show how his shutter could freeze action - a function he called the ‘snapper.’ It is believed to be one of the first stop-action photographs. The public initially thought the photograph was a trick, since prior to Bennett capturing an exposure was a laborious process. Visitors swarmed to the Wisconsin Dells, where they could get their own photographs taken as they made the leap. Eventually tourist leaps were stopped because of the risk.
Wilhelm Sasnal / Roy orbison
What we, or at any rate what I, refer to confidently as memory - meaning a moment, a scene, a fact that has been subjected to a fixative and thereby rescued from oblivion - is really a form of storytelling that goes on continually in the mind and often changes with the telling. Too many conflicting emotional interests are involved for life ever to be wholly acceptable, and possibly it is the work of the storyteller to rearrange things so that they conform to this end. In any case, in talking about the past we lie with every breath we draw.
—William Maxwell - So Long, See You Tomorrow (1979)
A month at least before the bloom
and already five bare-limbed cherries
by the highway ringed in a haze
of incipient fire
—middle of the afternoon,
a faint pink-bronze glow. Some things
wear their becoming:
the night we walked,
nearly strangers, from a fevered party
to the corner where you’d left your motorcycle,
afraid some rough wind might knock it to the curb,
you stood on the other side
of the upright machine, other side
of what would be us, and tilted your head
toward me over the wet leather seat
while you strapped your helmet on,
engineer boots firm on the black pavement.
Did we guess we’d taken the party’s fire with us,
somewhere behind us that dim apartment
cooling around its core like a stone?
Can you know, when you’re not even a bud
but a possibility poised at some brink?
Of course we couldn’t see ourselves,
though love’s the template and rehearsal
of all being, something coming to happen
where nothing was…
But just now
I thought of a troubled corona of new color,
visible echo, and wondered if anyone
driving in the departing gust and spatter
on Seventh Avenue might have seen
the cloud breathed out around us
as if we were a pair
of—could it be?—soon-to-flower trees.
But, these days, of course, everybody knows everything, that’s why so many people are so lost.
—If Beale Street Could Talk by James Baldwin (via sinsforegone)
How often do we tell our own life story? How often do we adjust, embellish, make sly cuts? And the longer life goes on, the fewer are those around to challenge our account, to remind us that our life is not our life, merely the story we have told about our life. Told to others, but—mainly—to ourselves.
—Julian Barnes, The Sense of an Ending (via observando)
Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.
Gabriel García Márquez, (1927-2014)
Cien años de Soledad/One Hundred Years of Solitude (1967)