Appendix: Hope and the Absurd in the Work of Franz Kafka from The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays, Albert Camus
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Appendix: Hope and the Absurd in the Work of Franz Kafka from The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays, Albert Camus

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Illustrations by Rovina Cai for Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights
"The Unbearable Lightness of Being", Milan Kundera (translated by Michael Henry Heim)
Holding newborn pups in your arms just makes the motherly sentiments wash over you 🥺
“It’s called Fall!” “It’s called Autumn!”
No. It’s called Dead Poets Society season.

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Hiba Abu Nada, from I Grant You Refuge (trans. Huda Fakhreddine)
Hiba Abu Nada was a novelist, poet, and educator. She wrote this poem on Oct. 10th, 2023. She died a martyr, killed in her home in south Gaza by an Israeli raid on Oct. 20th, 2023. She was 32 years old.
I'm reading about how Israel, in the immediate aftermath of the 1948 Nakba, deliberately replaced olive trees and other indigenous flora with European plants. This ecological disaster, which is now proudly hailed under the banner of 'making the desert bloom,' was done to 'de-Arabize' the landscape, and to cover up - often with fast-growing European pine trees -the ruins of Palestinian villages that were destroyed by Zionists forces.
And I just need everyone to read this passage from Pappé, because the symbolism of what happened to those European pine trees in the desert speaks for itself:
The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine, by Ilan Pappé (2006, p. 227-228.)
favourite poems of october
alfred starr a dark dreambox of another kind: the poems of alfred starr: "didn't you ever search for another star?
stephen spender new collected poems: "auden's funeral"
marianne boruch keats is coughing
noa micaela fields zoeglossia: poem of the week, may 17, 2021: "echolalia"
kevin young diptych
richard siken real estate
crisosto apache kúghą/home
mikko harvey for m
nathan hoks nests in air: "the barbed wire nest"
john a. holmes noon waking
crisosto apache 37 common characterisi(x)s of a displaced indian with a learning disability
oliver de la paz requiem for the orchard: "at the time of my birth"
zhang xun jiangnan song (tr. bijaan noormohamed)
paul violi fracas: "extenuating circumstances"
tianru wang after "yellow crane tower"
lloyd schwartz cairo traffic: "nostalgia (the lake at night)"
kamiko han the narrow road to the interior: "the orient"
rigoberto gonzalez unpeopled eden: "unpeopled eden"
adelaide crapsey verse: "to the dead in the graveyard underneath my window"
chester kallman night music
alan shapiro covenant: "covenant"
tom clark light and shade: new and selected poems: "radio"
tc tolbert my melissa,
charlie smith in praise of regret
carolyn kizer cool, calm, and collected: poems 1960-2000: "fanny"
julie sheehan orient point: "hate poem"
arthur sze the redshifting web: poems 1970-1998: "streamers"
joumana altallal everything here...in the voice of tara fares
abid b al-abras last simile
w.s. merwin to lingering regrets
george scarbrough music
shout me a coffee
Ohhhh my godddd.............
Please please please I know we all love Friends and Chandler was our favourite character and Matthew always put a smile on our faces and that’s all amazing but can we please please please talk about this:
“I've had a lot of ups and downs in my life. I'm still working through it personally, but the best thing about me is that if an alcoholic or drug addict comes up to me and says, 'Will you help me?' I will always say, 'Yes, I know how to do that. I will do that for you, even if I can't always do it for myself! So I do that, whenever I can. In groups, or one on one.
And I created the Perry House in Malibu, a sober-living facility for men. I also wrote my play The End of Longing, which is a personal message to the world, an exaggerated form of me as a drunk. I had something important to say to people like me, and to people who love people like me.
When I die, I know people will talk about Friends, Friends, Friends. And I'm glad of that, happy l've done some solid work as an actor, as well as given people multiple chances to make fun of my struggles on the world wide web...
but when I die, as far as my so-called accomplishments go, it would be nice if Friends were listed far behind the things I did to try to help other people.
I know it won't happen, but it would be nice.”
- Matthew Langford Perry
(August 19, 1969 - October 28, 2023)

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“hamlet tries prozac” by tawanda mulalu, from his book please make me pretty, i don’t want to die (princeton series of contemporary poets, 2022)
Didun means soft frills of cotton saree to hold on to. Didun means oil lanterns during a power cut on a stormy evening. Didun means Rabindra Sangeet while cooking. Didun means stories of thunderstorms and collecting mangoes after the fruits drop in its wake. Didun means spoonfuls of my favourite curry. Didun means everything tender. Didun means Roti with a dash of Gur for dinner. Didun means ice creams every summer. Didun means the tenderness of Shiuli in autumn and its fragnance lingering within her all year long. Didun means my childhood. Didun means a major piece of my heart. Didun means that piece is now forever lost. Didun means a part of my existence will remain empty until the day we are reunited, somewhere far, far away from here 🥀
the hierarchy of compliments goes like this:
drunk girls in the bathroom complimenting your outfit
little kids complimenting literally anything about u
little old ladies at the checkout till
librarians on your reading choices
i'd like to be the person you can just hang out with. text me, come over, we can go explore new cafes or stay at home all day. i just don't want to be alone all the time, and i hope you might want me there with you

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“Ernest Hemingway would have died rather than have syntax. Or semicolons. I use a whole lot of half-assed semicolons; there was one of them just now; that was a semicolon after “semicolons,” and another one after “now.” And another thing. Ernest Hemingway would have died rather than get old. And he did. He shot himself. A short sentence. Anything rather than a long sentence, a life sentence. Death sentences are short and very, very manly. Life sentences aren’t. They go on and on, all full of syntax and qualifying clauses and confusing references and getting old. And that brings up the real proof of what a mess I have made of being a man.”
—
Ursula K. Le Guin on being a man – the finest, sharpest thing I’ve read in ages
“Ernest Hemingway would have died rather than have syntax. Or semicolons. I use a whole lot of half-assed semicolons; there was one of them just now; that was a semicolon after “semicolons,” and another one after “now.” And another thing. Ernest Hemingway would have died rather than get old. And he did. He shot himself. A short sentence. Anything rather than a long sentence, a life sentence. Death sentences are short and very, very manly. Life sentences aren’t. They go on and on, all full of syntax and qualifying clauses and confusing references and getting old. And that brings up the real proof of what a mess I have made of being a man.”
—
Ursula K. Le Guin on being a man – the finest, sharpest thing I’ve read in ages