lazenby:


In October 1908, Joseph Pulitzer’s New York World  sent one of its Russian correspondents to see Leo Tolstoy at his home, Yasnaya Polyana. The correspondent was to commission Tolstoy to write an article about Abraham Lincoln, which would be published on Lincon’s centennial the following February. Citing his health—he would be dead in a little over two years—Tolstoy declined the World’s offer. Instead, he told this story,
If one would know the greatness of Lincoln one should listen to the stories which are told about him in other parts of the world. I have been in wild places, where one hears the name of America uttered with such mystery as if it were some heaven or hell. I have heard various tribes of barbarians discussing the New World, but I heard this only in connection with the name of Lincoln. Lincoln as the wonderful hero of America is known by the most primitive nations of Asia. This may be illustrated through the following incident: “Once while travelling in the Caucasus I happened to be the guest of a Caucasian chief of the Circassians, who, living far away from civilized life in the mountains, had but a fragmentary and childish comprehension of the world and its history. The fingers of civilization had never reached him nor his tribe, and all life beyond his native valleys was a dark mystery. Being a Muslim he was naturally opposed to all ideas of progress and education.
I was received with the usual Oriental hospitality and after our meal was asked by my host to tell him something of my life. Yielding to his request I began to tell him of my profession, of the development of our industries and inventions and of the schools. He listened to everything with indifference, but when I began to tell about the great statesmen and the great generals of the world he seemed at once to become very much interested.
‘Wait a moment,’ he interrupted, after I had talked a few minutes. ‘I want all my neighbors and my sons to listen to you. I will call them immediately.’
He soon returned with a score of wild looking riders and asked me politely to continue. It was indeed a solemn moment when those sons of the wilderness sat around me on the floor and gazed at me as if hungering for knowledge. I spoke at first of our Czars and of their victories; then I spoke of the foreign rulers and of some of the greatest military leaders. My talk seemed to impress them deeply. The story of Napoleon was so interesting to them that I had to tell them every detail, as, for instance, how his hands looked, how tall he was, who made his guns and pistols and the color of his horse. It was very difficult to satisfy them and to meet their point of view, but I did my best. When I declared that I had finished my talk, my host, a gray- bearded, tall rider, rose, lifted his hand and said very gravely:
‘But you have not told us a syllable about the greatest general and greatest ruler of the world. We want to know something about him. He was a hero. He spoke with a voice of thunder; he laughed like the sunrise and his deeds were strong as the rock and as sweet as the fragrance of roses. The angels appeared to his mother and predicted that the son whom she would conceive would become the greatest the stars had ever seen. He was so great that he even forgave the crimes of his greatest enemies and shook brotherly hands with those who had plotted against his life. His name was Lincoln and the country in which he lived is called America, which is so far away that if a youth should journey to reach it he would be an old man when he arrived. Tell us of that man.’
‘Tell us, please, and we will present you with the best horse of our stock,’ shouted the others.
I looked at them and saw their faces all aglow, while their eyes were burning. I saw that those rude barbarians were really interested in a man whose name and deeds had already become a legend. I told them of Lincoln and his wisdom, of his home life and youth. They asked me ten questions to one which I was able to answer. They wanted to know all about his habits, his influence upon the people and his physical strength. But they were very astonished to hear that Lincoln made a sorry figure on a horse and that he lived such a simple life.
‘Tell us why he was killed,’ one of them said.
I had to tell everything. After all my knowledge of Lincoln was exhausted they seemed to be satisfied. I can hardly forget the great enthusiasm which they expressed in their wild thanks and desire to get a picture of the great American hero. I said that I probably could secure one from my friend in the nearest town, and this seemed to give them great pleasure.
The next morning when I left the chief a wonderful Arabian horse was brought me as a present for my marvelous story, and our farewell was very impressive.
One of the riders agreed to accompany me to the town and get the promised picture, which I was now bound to secure at any price. I was successful in getting a large photograph from my friend, and I handed it to the man with my greetings to his associates. It was interesting to witness the gravity of his face and the trembling of his hands when he received my present. He gazed for several minutes silently, like one in a reverent prayer; his eyes filled with tears. He was deeply touched and I asked him why he became so sad. After pondering my question for a few moments he replied:
‘I am sad because I feel sorry that he had to die by the hand of a villain. Don’t you find, judging from his picture, that his eyes are full of tears and that his lips are sad with a secret sorrow?’

lazenby:

In October 1908, Joseph Pulitzer’s New York World  sent one of its Russian correspondents to see Leo Tolstoy at his home, Yasnaya Polyana. The correspondent was to commission Tolstoy to write an article about Abraham Lincoln, which would be published on Lincon’s centennial the following February. Citing his health—he would be dead in a little over two years—Tolstoy declined the World’s offer. Instead, he told this story,

If one would know the greatness of Lincoln one should listen to the stories which are told about him in other parts of the world. I have been in wild places, where one hears the name of America uttered with such mystery as if it were some heaven or hell. I have heard various tribes of barbarians discussing the New World, but I heard this only in connection with the name of Lincoln. Lincoln as the wonderful hero of America is known by the most primitive nations of Asia. This may be illustrated through the following incident: “Once while travelling in the Caucasus I happened to be the guest of a Caucasian chief of the Circassians, who, living far away from civilized life in the mountains, had but a fragmentary and childish comprehension of the world and its history. The fingers of civilization had never reached him nor his tribe, and all life beyond his native valleys was a dark mystery. Being a Muslim he was naturally opposed to all ideas of progress and education.

I was received with the usual Oriental hospitality and after our meal was asked by my host to tell him something of my life. Yielding to his request I began to tell him of my profession, of the development of our industries and inventions and of the schools. He listened to everything with indifference, but when I began to tell about the great statesmen and the great generals of the world he seemed at once to become very much interested.

‘Wait a moment,’ he interrupted, after I had talked a few minutes. ‘I want all my neighbors and my sons to listen to you. I will call them immediately.’

He soon returned with a score of wild looking riders and asked me politely to continue. It was indeed a solemn moment when those sons of the wilderness sat around me on the floor and gazed at me as if hungering for knowledge. I spoke at first of our Czars and of their victories; then I spoke of the foreign rulers and of some of the greatest military leaders. My talk seemed to impress them deeply. The story of Napoleon was so interesting to them that I had to tell them every detail, as, for instance, how his hands looked, how tall he was, who made his guns and pistols and the color of his horse. It was very difficult to satisfy them and to meet their point of view, but I did my best. When I declared that I had finished my talk, my host, a gray- bearded, tall rider, rose, lifted his hand and said very gravely:

‘But you have not told us a syllable about the greatest general and greatest ruler of the world. We want to know something about him. He was a hero. He spoke with a voice of thunder; he laughed like the sunrise and his deeds were strong as the rock and as sweet as the fragrance of roses. The angels appeared to his mother and predicted that the son whom she would conceive would become the greatest the stars had ever seen. He was so great that he even forgave the crimes of his greatest enemies and shook brotherly hands with those who had plotted against his life. His name was Lincoln and the country in which he lived is called America, which is so far away that if a youth should journey to reach it he would be an old man when he arrived. Tell us of that man.’

‘Tell us, please, and we will present you with the best horse of our stock,’ shouted the others.

I looked at them and saw their faces all aglow, while their eyes were burning. I saw that those rude barbarians were really interested in a man whose name and deeds had already become a legend. I told them of Lincoln and his wisdom, of his home life and youth. They asked me ten questions to one which I was able to answer. They wanted to know all about his habits, his influence upon the people and his physical strength. But they were very astonished to hear that Lincoln made a sorry figure on a horse and that he lived such a simple life.

‘Tell us why he was killed,’ one of them said.

I had to tell everything. After all my knowledge of Lincoln was exhausted they seemed to be satisfied. I can hardly forget the great enthusiasm which they expressed in their wild thanks and desire to get a picture of the great American hero. I said that I probably could secure one from my friend in the nearest town, and this seemed to give them great pleasure.

The next morning when I left the chief a wonderful Arabian horse was brought me as a present for my marvelous story, and our farewell was very impressive.

One of the riders agreed to accompany me to the town and get the promised picture, which I was now bound to secure at any price. I was successful in getting a large photograph from my friend, and I handed it to the man with my greetings to his associates. It was interesting to witness the gravity of his face and the trembling of his hands when he received my present. He gazed for several minutes silently, like one in a reverent prayer; his eyes filled with tears. He was deeply touched and I asked him why he became so sad. After pondering my question for a few moments he replied:

‘I am sad because I feel sorry that he had to die by the hand of a villain. Don’t you find, judging from his picture, that his eyes are full of tears and that his lips are sad with a secret sorrow?’

image

This kid has his priorities straight; he has the looks and probably is doing very well today. I worry that he lives in the shadow of his greatness but we all need to move on to better things — being a Nintendo model is probably not a sustainable model. 

And look how orderly his shit is — action models above his boxy tv give the space some movement in what would be a very stagnant corner. Presumably the middle helicopter is a HUEY, a popular model used in Vietnam War movies, but I am sure the set designer was not trying to suggest any sort of ironic feng shui. 

 

This kid has so many reasons to offer a thumbs up. Baseball trophy. Good job. Clean white shoes obnoxiously perched on his nice desk — how the fuck do you keep white shoes looking clean, shit is ruining my life. I think the feet on the desk issue can slide since the young gentleman is polite enough to take his neon green Capcom hat off while he is indoors, which makes me wonder if his father’s voice is a constant echo to take his hat off indoors. Or maybe he just needs the mullet fluff to breath for a bit while he cools his heals on some 8-bit cartridges for a bit, an emotional, physical & spiritual RESET after a long day of RC cars, pre-algebra & bra snapping. 

The biggest mes here is the aforementioned 8-bit cartridge and carefully messy game boxes in the background of his positive thumb. No kit kat wrappers or half full and half flat burger king soda cups. I knew kids like this, except their parents allowed them to smoke in the house by the time we were in middle school, but I bet this health nut thinks that shit is a bad scene and stopped listening to anything remotely aggressive as soon as Pantera came out w/vulgar display of power. I wonder if his mom cleans his room while he is away, or maybe we should just be honest and it was probably their maid, someone who loves this white boy more than some of her own children like a load-bearing Faulkner character. She probably has no idea that this is just a poor man’s Corey Haim and I hope he never had to fall on that role again in his life. 

Fuck Nintendo

happyrockisabook:

It’s contest time. You can win one of a three copies of my book HAPPY ROCK in hardcover*. In the past, I’ve had people send me photos of themselves playing pinball to win hardcover copies of A JELLO HORSE. It went great. When THE MOON TONIGHT FEELS MY REVENGE came out, I got people to…

what was the last short story you wrote about?
Anonymous

Hi. Thanks for the question. 

This was my last story here:

http://thefiddleback.com/issue-items/mead-dad-bristles-heat-dad-bristles

To answer your question, beats me. 

naphypelabs:

Melissa Broder

amazing melissa 

circlepit:

‘HONEY’ VIDEO BY ANGELA BERMUDA 2011.

Cemeteries are a beautiful thing. So is this video. 

When I go back to Mississippi, I always love seeing the headstones w/ my name on them. 

no bobby head can live forever  

internetpoetry:

political macro image by angela shier

internetpoetry:

political macro image by angela shier

HERE ARE SOME BOOKS AND CHAPBOOKS I HAVE WRITTEN

This is good shit here. I’m also reading this:

http://solarluxuriance.com/

while sitting on the porch during a thunderstorm. Get it. 

hauntology:

you can download them and read them. there are typos in some of them, sorry.

ELEGY TO MASCULINITY (2012, CHAPBOOK)

LAND GRID (2012, STORY COLLECTION)

ROUND OF APPLAUSE, BABY MAKE THAT ASS CLAP (2011, CHAPBOOK)

THE DARK PLACES OF THE EARTH (2011, CHAPBOOK)

WEAK (2011, FICTION/ESSAY)

THE ABYSS IS THE FOUNDATION OF THE POSSIBLE (2010, NOVELLA)

EXQUISITE FUCKING DESIRE (2008, STORY COLLECTION)

christopherhiggs:

Reading from my work-in-progress (To Be, To Be, Or Not To Be) at The Warehouse in Tallahassee, FL (July 10, 2012)

Part One: “Remix of Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman”
Part Two: “Remix of Jean-Paul Sartre’s No Exit”

I have been reading about this. Sounds like it may be amazing. 
millionsmillions:

The first book of Norwegian novelist Karl Ove Knausgaard’s six volume memoir My Struggle is now available in the United States. David Masciotra reviews:
The point is found in the book’s language. The language, what Knausgaard calls the “banality of the everyday,” complements the microscopic scrutiny under which Knausgaard puts his life. He will spend a paragraph describing a fly’s movement, and then spend three paragraphs describing a shirt his father wore, and then at some point, write something brilliant about the nature of love. In the tradition of St. Augustine’s Confessions andDostoevsky’s Notes From the Underground, Knausgaard has fashioned a book that contains an immersive world that begins to feel more real than reality. When the reader enters that world, she accepts an invitation to tour every detail of Knausgaard’s life.

I have been reading about this. Sounds like it may be amazing. 

millionsmillions:

The first book of Norwegian novelist Karl Ove Knausgaard’s six volume memoir My Struggle is now available in the United States. David Masciotra reviews:

The point is found in the book’s language. The language, what Knausgaard calls the “banality of the everyday,” complements the microscopic scrutiny under which Knausgaard puts his life. He will spend a paragraph describing a fly’s movement, and then spend three paragraphs describing a shirt his father wore, and then at some point, write something brilliant about the nature of love. In the tradition of St. Augustine’s Confessions andDostoevsky’s Notes From the Underground, Knausgaard has fashioned a book that contains an immersive world that begins to feel more real than reality. When the reader enters that world, she accepts an invitation to tour every detail of Knausgaard’s life.
chuckdtattoos:

Rip handmade sign You did us right (Taken with Instagram)

From this post:
http://theworstworst.tumblr.com/post/8231327936/stencil-for-a-friends-temporary-fence

Three students at the University of Maryland (Sohayl in gold, Hannah Methvin in black, Deanna Wright in silver) dressed in latex Zentai suits and visited the National Gallery of Art, where they posed in front of (and as) art.