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That the soul was not a fact, a simple thing you were, and possessed, had seemed to Sandro so reasonable. Still he believed it. That reality, in a sense, was not an objective place where you were thrust. You had to maintain your hold on it by vigilantly keeping watch over whatever slight and intangible thing gave your life its meaning. Call it a soul, or presence. Whatever it was, a prisoner or guest and you had to trick it or petition it into lingering.

People weighted themselves, Sandro knew, if not with stones.

A movie, a lover. Friends. Complicities. A certain amount of success. These were decent crutches, provided they could be changed up often enough. And art, of course. Making art was really about the problem of the soul, of losing it. It was a technique for inhabiting the world. For not dissolving into it.
Rachel Kushner, The Flamethrowers
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natgeofound:

A pipe emits poisonous gases in a flame produced by oil production, April 1948.Photograph by Maynard Owen Williams, National Geographic.

natgeofound:

A pipe emits poisonous gases in a flame produced by oil production, April 1948.

Photograph by Maynard Owen Williams, National Geographic.

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Monica Vitti in Red Desert

Monica Vitti in Red Desert

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Four French cops watch carefully from no more than ten feet away—smiling slightly to one another while remaining fixed in place, demonstrating the usual conviction of the French police that the human comedy as it unfolds is so absorbing that to intervene and impose artificial order upon it would be inartistic.

Adam Gopnik, The People Who Pass

Lol.

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Philip-Lorca diCorcia – Brian

Philip-Lorca diCorcia – Brian

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It reminded me of talking, how what is said is never quite what was thought, and what is heard is never quite what was said. It wasn’t much in the way of comfort, but everything has a little failure in it, and we still make do somehow.
Kevin Powers, The Yellow Birds
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Rebecca Lepkoff, Untitled (Family on Street)

Rebecca Lepkoff, Untitled (Family on Street)

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She looked just like herself on this day—direct and vague as in fact she was, sweet and ironic.
Alice Munro, The Bear Came Over the Mountain
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natgeofound:

An unpublished shot from California in the 1930’s. Photograph by Clifton R. Adams, National Geographic

natgeofound:

An unpublished shot from California in the 1930’s. Photograph by Clifton R. Adams, National Geographic

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I am one of the searchers. There are, I believe, millions of us. We are not unhappy, but neither are we really content. We continue to explore life, hoping to uncover its ultimate secret. We continue to explore ourselves, hoping to understand. We like to walk along the beach, we are drawn by the ocean, taken by its power, its unceasing motion, its mystery and unspeakable beauty. We like forests and mountains, deserts and hidden rivers, and the lonely cities as well. Our sadness is as much a part of our lives as is our laughter. To share our sadness with one we love is perhaps as great a joy as we can know—unless it be to share our laughter.

We searchers are ambitious only for life itself, for everything beautiful it can provide. Most of all we love and want to be loved. We want to live in a relationship that will not impede our wandering, nor prevent our search, nor lock us in prison walls; that will take us for what little we have to give. We do not want to prove ourselves to another or compete for love.

For wanderers, dreamers, and lovers, for lonely men and women who dare to ask of life everything good and beautiful. It is for those who are too gentle to live among wolves.

James Kavanaugh, There Are Men Too Gentle to Live Among Wolves

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