V. Woolf – Mrs. Dalloway

She began to go slowly upstairs, with her hand on the bannisters, as if she had left a party, where now this friend now that had flashed back her face, her voice; had shut the door and gone out and stood alone, a single figure against the appalling night, or rather, to be accurate, against the stare of this matter-of-fact June morning; soft with the glow of rose petals for some, she knew, and felt it, as she paused by the open staircase window which let in blinds flapping, dogs barking, let in, she thought, feeling herself suddenly shrivelled, aged, breastless, the grinding, blowing, flowering of the day, out of doors, out of the window, out of her body and brain which now failed, since Lady Bruton, whose lunch parties were said to be extraordinarily amusing, had not asked her.

We got art. Now, what do we do?

It’s been same years since art began. Thousands even. Time flies by so fast. One day you have those awsome cave-wall paintings, next day someone writes about Ulysses who’s lost in Dublin. Also, every now and then there is someone talking about the end of art, claiming that nothing new is possible and that all our creative possibilties are exhausted.  Supposedly all is said and done we can go home. Right? Only, there are a few artists lingering on, lonely and jobless. Sitting hopelessly for our viewing instead of their art.

abramo12

#Marina Abramovic: The Artist Is Present

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Thomas Pynchon as a hacker

(Here’s another entry from the other blog, originally posted 05/02/2012)

You know the Anonymous. A mysterious, yet quite popular, loose collective of hackers/activists. That are to be expected or so they say. Since Pynchon’s identity is in fact unknown and his person is unreachable consequently that makes him as anonymous as it gets. However important is the case of reclusiveness and trying to hide from everyone for decades, this is not the main argument here. The point is that he invented a model of  ‘Anonymous network’ before they could ever learn what Linux was.

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