isfallingdown: (went a little further)
-margatesands: i know you! with Chef.
-dear_mun: such a party. with Hawke.
isfallingdown: (made me see things)
Apocalypse Now. the film's script.
Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad. the novella that inspired Apocalypse Now.
Sean Flynn. apparently a basis for the Photojournalist's character.
Dispatches. Michael Herr's book on his time as a reporter in the war.

video clips
Talking to a caged Willard. "He was a wise man? he was a KIND man? Bullshit, man!"
Trying to explain Kurtz. Also fractions that can't go into space. "This is the way the world ends," and a bit of those hollow men does everyone a little good.

The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot
The Hollow Men, T.S. Eliot
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot
If, Rudyard Kipling

bits and pieces from the mun's tumblr.

from the novella
"I looked at him, lost in astonishment. There he was before me, in motley, as though he had absconded from a troupe of mimes, enthusiastic, fabulous. His very existence was improbable, inexplicable, and altogether bewildering. He was an insoluble problem. It was inconceivable how he had existed, how he had succeeded in getting so far, how he had managed to remain -- why he did not instantly disappear. 'I went a little farther,' he said, 'then still a little farther -- till I had gone so far that I don't know how I'll ever get back. Never mind. Plenty time. I can manage. You take Kurtz away quick -- quick -- I tell you.' The glamour of youth enveloped his parti-coloured rags, his destitution, his loneliness, the essential desolation of his futile wanderings. For months -- for years -- his life hadn't been worth a day's purchase; and there he was gallantly, thoughtlessly alive, to all appearances indestructible solely by the virtue of his few years and of his unreflecting audacity. I was seduced into something like admiration -- like envy. Glamour urged him on, glamour kept him unscathed. He surely wanted nothing from the wilderness but space to breathe in and to push on through. His need was to exist, and to move onwards at the greatest possible risk, and with a maximum of privation. [...] I almost envied him the possession of this modest and clear flame. It seemed to have consumed all thought of self so completely, that even while he was talking to you, you forgot that it was he -- the man before your eyes -- who had gone through these things. I did not envy him his devotion to Kurtz, though. He had not meditated over it. It came to him, and he accepted it with a sort of eager fatalism. I must say that to me it appeared about the most dangerous thing in every way he had come upon so far.

"They had come together unavoidably, like two ships becalmed near each other, and lay rubbing sides at last. I suppose Kurtz wanted an audience, because on a certain occasion, when encamped in the forest, they had talked all night, or more probably Kurtz had talked. 'We talked of everything,' he said, quite transported at the recollection. 'I forgot there was such a thing as sleep. The night did not seem to last an hour. Everything! Everything! . . . Of love, too.' 'Ah, he talked to you of love!' I said, much amused. 'It isn't what you think,' he cried, almost passionately. 'It was in general. He made me see things -- things.'"

-Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
isfallingdown: (gone so far)
"Believe me, I speak as my understanding instructs me and as mine honesty puts it to utterance."
—William Shakespeare, The Winter’s Tale

"What a thing, to be with you and have
no words for it. What a thing,
to be outcast like that."
—Mary Szybist, ‘Long after the Desert and Donkey’

"A bird’s voice,
speaking the language of birds,
I flutter in the whirlwind."
—Jay Wright, ‘The Initiate Takes His First Six Signs, the Design of His Name’

"Not to be known when I sink down. I have made your face wrong. Vulnerable as mortal. In the no man’s land I remain Yours forever."
—Susan Howe, ‘Captivity and Restoration’

"Because the world is so full of death and horror, I try again and again to console my heart and pick the flowers that grow in the midst of hell."
—Hermann Hesse, Narcissus and Goldmund

"But who can remember pain, once it’s over? All that remains of it is a shadow, not in the mind even, in the flesh. Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind."
—Margaret Atwood

"Look at me: I don’t know how to belong to my life. To be here. Not knowing where here is anymore."
—Naomi Wallace, The Trestle at Pope Lick Creek

"Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality."
— T.S. Eliot, ‘Burnt Norton’


isfallingdown: (Default)
The Photojournalist

March 2016

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