Harmony Korine and Denis Lavant on the set of Mister Lonely (2007).
“You spend the entire time being like, ‘Can you CGI my heinie so it’s a little smaller?’ They’re like, ‘Do you want another dragon? Or do you want a smaller bum? It’s either/or, Emilia.’ Damn it. Go for the dragon.” — Emilia Clarke for the Rolling Stone
Photo by Jester363
Medicine is my lawful wife, and literature is my mistress. When I get fed up with one, I spend the night with the other. Though it is irregular, it is less boring this way, and besides, neither of them loses anything through my infidelity.
We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.
The way to create art is to burn and destroy ordinary concepts and to substitute them with new truths that run down from the top of the head and out from the heart.
One advantage in keeping a diary is that you become aware with reassuring clarity of the changes which you constantly suffer and which in a general way are naturally believed, surmised, and admitted by you, but which you’ll unconsciously deny when it comes to the point of gaining hope or peace from such an admission. In the diary you find proof that in situations which today would seem unbearable, you lived, looked around and wrote down observations, that this right hand moved then as it does today, when we may be wiser because we are able to look back upon our former condition, and for that very reason have got to admit the courage of our earlier striving in which we persisted even in sheer ignorance.
—Franz Kafka, Diaries, 1910-1923
Indeed, isn’t the whole business of ascribing responsibility a kind of cop-out? We want to blame an individual so that everyone else is exculpated. Or we blame a historic process as a way of exonerating individuals. Or it’s all anarchic chaos, with the same consequences. It seems to me that there is - was - a chain of individual responsibilities, all of which were necessary, but not so long a chain that everybody can blame everyone else. But of course, my desire to ascribe responsibility might be more a reflection of my own cast of mind than a fair analysis of what happened. That’s one of the central problems of history, isn’t it, sir? The question of subjective versus objective interpretation, the fact that we need to know the history of the historian in order to understand the version that is being put in front of us.
—From Julian Barnes’ “The Sense of an Ending”