Any book about a revolution that doesn’t end with a pile of bodies or a stack of questions is either a love story or a work of propaganda.
Revolutions fizzle out, they die, stagger into aimlessness, or grow regimes even more brutal than the ones they replaced. Revolutions exalt; revolutions disappoint. They glorify and then exhaust. They reveal and mislead. They bestow legitimacy on monsters or make kings of democrats or democrats of murderers.
Then, sometimes, they lead to peace.
Doom in the air so awful, people’d been talking about it for days, now suddenly rumble the visitation arrives in New York and everyone’s in ecstasy - anticipation of the actual final stroke of death—Everything disappears in disintegration, I with it—but my consciousness doesn’t seem to disintegrate—
Jack Kerouac (via abstiegundzerfall)
(Source: , via fuckyeahbeatgeneration)
I strolled across
An open field;
The sun was out;
Heat was happy.
This way! This way!
The wren’s throat shimmered,
Either to other,
The blossoms sang.
The stones sang,
The little ones did,
And the flowers jumped
Like small goats.
A ragged fringe
Of daisys waved;
I wasn’t alone
In a grove of…
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
(submitted by bearinthewoods)
After sundown, before sleeping, I am the worst of me. I am a mess of these
Old themes and the murmur of half-dreams whisper seductively and
It’s fear fiction, these visions, caught somewhere between delusion and prophesy.
What I haven’t done, what I’ve wanted to, and what I fear you have
Becomes reality here.
La Dispute (via stoneculleeney)