Jasper Johns’ laugh, loud and fugitive like the warning call of a forest creature before retreating to its hole
Aaron Sorkin’s comment about it being pathetic of writers to think and treat their characters as if they actually live (meaning I suppose that they ever achieve something like a motive autonomy). For him characters are the means to push buttons. As a result, his characters don’t live. They evanesce, and you’d be confused to equate this irrelevancy with the higher wisdom of the fleeting nature of things. That, a cover for mediocrity.
SyrupTissues
If you can surmount
The wretched surmise
Of your surroundings
You may do surprisingly
Good work some day sir.
Don’t even pose rhetorical questions out loud. It’s salesmanshtick, patronizing, manipulolings...
Martian Landscape
The rustblown rocks
Who could believe no eyes had ever seen them
Or seen the frost crawl upon the day and melt from the day
Or believe such modern things were going on
Even while baboons groomed
And Jesus spoke
And suffragettes marched.
The most forward-thinking ancient
Dropped onto this unconversant plain
Would paralyze with incongruity
Would be an ant on this tablecloth.
Ruins so like our own
Yet never peopled.
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