confessions of a reformed tourist
Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.
-E.L. Doctorow
Hm. I don’t know about that. How about misanthropy? Self-flagellation? Public masturbation? Narcissism? Burning, unbridled rage? Juvenile escapism? Or, my person favorite, insufferable navel-gazing?
Forgive me. It’s just that I’m – and I don’t think I’m alone here – I’m a bit weary of the writers-as-raving-lunatics fallacy.
(via)
The two revolutions, I mean the annual revolutions of the declination and of the centre of the Earth, are not completely equal; that is the return of the declination to its original value is slightly ahead of the period of the centre. Hence it necessarily follows that the equinoxes and solstices seem to anticipate their [...]
Seven years today since 9/11. Seven years ago this minute I was watching the second tower fall. All morning I’ve been listening to the reading of the names at Ground Zero. I’ve always hated it that they call it that — Ground Zero. There are actually baseball caps with that godawful nickname. It’s beyond me [...]
(My son and his friend the fisherman.)
Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable.
I do not quite know how to describe how I am feeling this evening. Irritated is part of it. Sad is another. [...]