stalked by something incomprehensible and menacing.
The end of history is the eternal present of a bureaucracy without humans.
Hamrah writes to a tub of over entertained frogs warming in shitty media bathwater he wants to drop a toaster oven into.
Thus the three dominant justifications of art in our time, as a strategy of self-knowledge, as means of therapy, as a road to empathy, are thrown out with the soiled bathwater.
As in a pantomime, we only know through happening.
Into the rest, I sank with a kind of agreeable, warm bafflement.
Rarely can one stomach the fact that to write political entails that you live political, as Cortez certainly did.
Narrative in the novel is meant to terrify. In the movie, it rehabilitates.
Could a bullet be a language?
lack of sound, lack of baby in a room, lack of the titular swaddle, a metonymic device also standing in for the baby, lack of something...
We knew it was over when his Nike wristbands came off, crumpling upon their release.
This idea of a costume worn as second skin, of sincere spectacle, as something distinctly American...