(via Obvious State)

Seneca:

I am not soothing you or making light of your misfortune: if fate can be overcome by tears, let us bring tears to bear upon it: let every day be passed in mourning, every night be spent in sorrow instead of sleep: let your breast be torn by your own hands, your very face attacked by them, and every kind of cruelty be practiced by your grief, if it will profit you. But if the dead cannot be brought back to life, however much we may beat our breasts, if destiny remains fixed and immoveable forever, not to be changed by any sorrow, however great, and death does not loose his hold of anything that he once has taken away, then let our futile grief be brought to an end. Let us, then, steer our own course, and no longer allow ourselves to be driven to leeward by the force of our misfortune. He is a sorry pilot who lets the waves wring his rudder from his grasp, who leaves the sails to fly loose, and abandons the ship to the storm: but he who boldly grasps the helm and clings to it until the sea closes over him, deserves praise even though he be shipwrecked.

When I followed a handful of seasonal re-reading patterns, before children and meaningful employment, one of them was to read Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast in the Fall. The introduction hinted at that which Hemingway cut from the book, or at least what he wanted us to think he cut from the book. Turns out Papa […]

via Hemingway, you bitch. — Condalmo.

Friends – let’s blog.

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6/5/18