#lard

I can still memory - taste the fresh buttermilk pancakes and hot buttermilk biscuits - both made with lard! - that were cooked on the top, or in the oven, of that ancient iron stove. ↗

— Vernon L. Smith

#biscuits #both #cooked #fresh #hot

They lard their lean books with the fat of others work. ↗

— Richard Burton

#fat #lard #lean #others #their

You must dare, and dare again, and then dare a little bit more, and go on daring. ↗

— Justin Cotillard

#boldness #cotillard #courage #dare #daring

Beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there. ↗

— Annie Dillard

#beauty #grace #beauty

I dreamt that I took William Burrough’s penis and tied it up with piano wire. I hung him like a Chagall painting…In the next part J.G. Ballard swam through streets of female urine. The girls read his book Crash and then mowed him down with their Volkswagen, crushing his chest slowly against a brick wall. As he screamed in agony larger than representation can accommodate, they referred to his text and had orgasms. Later, they jumped up and down yelling, ‘You’re not a hero. You’re not a hero. You’re not. You’re not. You’re not.’ “ “How do you analyze that part of the dream, Anna?” …”I guess I’m nervous about my birthday. ↗

— Sarah Schulman

#dreams #j-g-ballard #psychoanalysis #sexism #william-burroughs

Miriam - I'll give you any flowers you want!' Rhapsodising over the thousand scents of her body, I exclaimed: 'I'll grow orchids from your hands, roses from your breasts. You can have magnolias in your hair...!' 'And in my heart?' 'In your womb I'll set a fly-trap! ↗

— J.G. Ballard

#j-g-ballard #sex #unlimited-dream-company #dreams

I must apologize, it seems I've gone and gotten myself shot. ↗

— Millard in Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs

#ransom-riggs #home

Even a minor event in the life of a child is an event of that child's world and thus a world event ↗

— Gaston Bachelard

#gaston-bachelard #life

…sense of futility that comes from doing anything merely to prove to yourself that you can do it: having a child, climbing a mountain, making some sexual conquest, committing suicide. The marathon is a form of demonstrative suicide, suicide as advertising: it is running to show you are capable of getting every last drop of energy out of yourself, to prove it… to prove what? That you are capable of finishing. Graffiti carry the same message. They simply say: I’m so-and-so and I exist! They are free publicity for existence. Do we continually have to prove to ourselves that we exist? A strange sign of weakness, harbinger of a new fanaticism for a faceless performance, endlessly self-evident. ↗

— Jean Baudrillard

#jean-baudrillard #sociology #advertising

I walked in without knocking. The screen door banged to a close behind me announcing my presence. I followed my nose to the kitchen and found Kaleb standing by the stove. He stirred something that smelled absolutely delicious a wooden spoon in one hand and a huge chef’s knife in the other. “Are you sober ” I asked from the doorway. He turned and leveled a smile at me that made me a little wobbly. “I am." “Good. Because if not I was going to take the deadly kitchen utensil away from you.” I crossed the room and pulled myself up to sit on the counter beside the stove. A cutting board full of green peppers and two uncut stalks of celery waited for attention from the knife. Melted butter and diced onions bubbled in a sauté pan on the stove. “You cook" Kaleb was so pretty I was jealous. Pretty with ripped muscles and a tattoo of a red dragon covering most of his upper body. “Yes ” he said. “I cook.” “Do you usually wear a wife beater and ” I pushed him back a little by his shoulder “an apron that says ‘Kiss the Cook’ while you’re doing it ” He leaned so close to me my heart skipped a couple of beats. “I’ll wear it all the time if you’ll consider it. ↗

— Myra McEntire

#humor #kaleb-ballard #humor