#williamhgass

[secretstyle]

Happy thanksgiving to everyone who read the epigraph to The Tunnel and didn’t finish because there’s like, a whole big book that follows #rabbit #pacman #namco #dungeon #williamhgass #anaxagoras #hell #descent #thetunnel #cartoon #comic #comicstrip #indexcardart #comics #illustration (at Griffith Observatory) https://www.instagram.com/p/ClW8MS9SHzo/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[thecrookedwriterspath]

. . . #quotes #writing #adobespark #alchemy #williamhgass #crooked_writer #crookedwriter https://www.instagram.com/p/Bve10DHHqC-/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=dkcbhx1vqsqv

[yourdisappointedarms]

A good haul from @loganberrybooks while I waited out rush hour traffic. #slavojzizek #tarryingwiththenegative #veronicachambers #resist #johnberger #onceineuropa #williamhgass #fictionandthefiguresoflife #marygaitskill #becausetheywantedto #mohammedmrabet #mhashish #wgsebald #austerlitz #nelsonalgren #chicagocityonthemake (at Loganberry Books) https://www.instagram.com/p/BvxwMZwAONI/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=qi8gjtd57piw

[atomicwitchdreamer-blog-blo-blog]

Immediatamente salutato come un capolavoro al momento della pubblicazione (1966),questo romanzo,ambientato sul finire dell'Ottocento, narra la storia di un uomo pacifico, buono e sereno - Brackett Omensetter - che si stabilisce con la famiglia in un paesino dell'Ohio. Per alcuni il nuovo venuto, con la sua imperturbabile innocenza e l'inconsueta fortuna che gli arride, diventa una figura affascinante e carismatica, dotata di un potere quasi mistico; ma per il reverendo Furber - uomo colto e introverso animato da una spiritualità rabbiosa, ossessiva e violenta - costituisce una minaccia alla religione organizzata. Con una narrazione a più voci e una prosa impressionistica che lo ha fatto proclamare degno erede di maestri come Joyce e Faulkner, Gass da miracolosamente vita a un piccolo universo per affrontare le grandi questioni dell'uomo, della natura e di Dio..... #libridisecondamano #ravenna #bookstagram #booklovers #bookstore #instabook #igersravenna #instaravenna #ig_books #libriusati #williamhgass (presso Libreria Scattisparsi)

[tiamatsgarden-blog]

Attempting to tackle this titan again. I love difficult books but this one has consistently beat me. #bookstagram #books #thetunnel #williamhgass

[loveinquotesposts]

https://loveinquotes.com/these-claudines-thenthey-want-to-know-because-they-believe-they-already-do-know-the-way-one-who-loves-fruit-knows-when-offered-a-mango-from-the-moon-what-to-expect-and-they-expect-the-lo/

These Claudines, then…they want to know because they believe they already do know, the way one who loves fruit knows, when offered a mango from the moon, what to expect; and they expect the loyal tender teasing affection of the schoolgirl crush to continue: the close and confiding companionship, the pleasure of the undemanding caress, the cuddle which consummates only closeness; yet in addition they want motherly putting right, fatherly forgiveness and almost papal indulgence; they expect that the sights and sounds, the glorious affairs of the world which their husbands will now bring before them gleaming like bolts of silk, will belong to the same happy activities as catching toads, peeling back tree bark, or powdering the cheeks with dandelions and oranging the nose; that music will ravish the ear the way the trill of the blackbird does; that literature will hold the mind in sweet suspense the way fairy tales once did; that paintings will crowd the eye with the delights of a colorful garden, and the city streets will be filled with the same cool dew-moist country morning air they fed on as children. But they shall not receive what they expect; the tongue will be about other business; one will hear in masterpieces only pride and bitter contention; buildings will have grandeur but no flowerpots or chickens; and these Claudines will exchange the flushed cheek for the swollen vein, and instead of companionship, they will get sex and absurd games composed of pinch, leer, and giggle—that’s what will happen to let’s pretend.'The great male will disappear into the jungle like the back of an elusive ape, and Claudine shall see little of his strength again, his intelligence or industry, his heroics on the Bourse like Horatio at the bridge (didn’t Colette see Henri de Jouvenel, editor and diplomat and duelist and hero of the war, away to work each day, and didn’t he often bring his mistress home with him, as Willy had when he was husband number one?); the great affairs of the world will turn into tawdry liaisons, important meetings into assignations, deals into vulgar dealings, and the en famille hero will be weary and whining and weak, reminding her of all those dumb boys she knew as a child, selfish, full of fat and vanity like patrons waiting to be served and humored, admired and not observed.'Is the occasional orgasm sufficient compensation? Is it the prize of pure surrender, what’s gained from all that giving up? There’ll be silk stockings and velvet sofas maybe, the customary caviar, tasting at first of frog water but later of money and the secretions of sex, then divine champagne, the supreme soda, and rubber-tired rides through the Bois de Boulogne; perhaps there’ll be rich ugly friends, ritzy at homes, a few young men with whom one may flirt, a homosexual confidant with long fingers, soft skin, and a beautiful cravat, perfumes and powders of an unimaginable subtlety with which to dust and wet the body, many deep baths, bonbons filled with sweet liqueurs, a procession of mildly salacious and sentimental books by Paul de Kock and company—good heavens, what’s the problem?—new uses for the limbs, a tantalizing glimpse of the abyss, the latest sins, envy certainly, a little spite, jealousy like a vaginal itch, and perfect boredom.'And the mirror, like justice, is your aid but never your friend.' -- From "Three Photos of Colette," The World Within the Word, reprinted from NYRB April 1977 ― William H. Gass, The World Within the Word

#ColetteLoveQuotes, #TheWorldWithinTheWord, #TheWorldWithinTheWordQuotes, #WilliamHGass, #WilliamHGassColetteLoveQuotes, #WilliamHGassQuotes

[quandarysite-blog]

The true #alchemist do not change lead into gold, they change the #world into #words ... #throwback #kolkatadiaries #insta #instaedit #juno #quotes #williamhgass (at Acropolis Mall Kasba)

[thejewofkansas]

#BookoftheDay: Omensetter's Luck (1966) Author: William H. Gass Pages: 315 "Omensetter's luck, they said. Future thought he could distinguish Omensetter's noises from the rest. What good was a wall that didn't blind and deafen? He could see and hear them as if he were on the beach beside them, smoking like a green branch against mosquitoes." (p. 133) #OmensettersLuck #WilliamHGass #Americanliterature #novel

[platinum-series-sj]

#Quote by #WilliamHGass "The true alchemist do not change lead into gold ;they change worlds into words." (at Coal Mountain, Georgia)

[charlesbandelier-blog]

And when I wrote my book, to whom was I writing if not the world?...the world!...the world is William welshing on a bet; it is olive sewing up the gut of a goose; it is Reynolds raping Rosie on the frat-house stair, it is a low blow, a deary afternoon, an exclamation of disgust. And when I wrote was I writing to win renown, as it's customarily claimed? or to gain revenge after a long bide of time and tight rein of temper? to earn promotion, to rise above the rest like a loosed balloon? or was it from weak self-esteem? from pure funk, out of a distant childhood fear or recent shame?...the world...the world, alas. It is Alice committing her Tampax to the trash.

The Tunnel, William H. Gass

[cole-lu]

THE SPECTACLE is now available online. 1st issue ft: #WilliamHGass @eileen.myles #ClaudiaRankine Jane Wong, Sarah Vap, Zach Savich, Dan Beachy-Quick, Kiki Petrosino, Shane McCrae, Patricia Ann Foster, Kat Saunders, Catherine A. Brereton, Molly Brodak, Aaron Coleman, Tyler Gof Barton, Kayla AE, Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore, Beth Lordan, and Liam Callanan, as well as Primary Visual Editor @tommooreillustration and Contributing Visual Editors @dzegede @ming_ying_hong Santiago Sepúlveda, and Jillian Stiles Release party at fort gondo on December 6 🌟 👉🏼 http://thespectacle.wustl.edu/

[frombookforum-blog1]

“Blue pencils, blue noses, blue movies, laws, blue legs and stockings, the language of birds, bees and flowers as sung by longshoremen, that lead-like look the skin has when affected by cold, contusion, sickness, fear; the rotten rum or gin they call blue ruin and the blue devils of its delirium; Russian cats and oysters, a withheld or imprisoned breath, the blue they say that diamonds have, deep holes in the ocean and the blazers which English athletes earn that gentlemen may wear; afflictions of the spirit--dumps, mopes, Mondays--all that's dismal--low-down gloomy music, Nova Scotians, cyanosis, hair rinse, bluing, bleach; the rare blue dahlia like the blue moon shrewd things happen only once in, or the call for trumps in whist (but who remembers whist or what the death of unplayed games is like?), and correspondingly the flag, Blue Peter, which is our signal for getting under way; a swift pitch, Confederate money, the shaded slopes of clouds and mountains, and so the constantly increasing absentness of Heaven (ins Blaue hinein, the Germans say), consequently the color of everything that's empty: blue bottles, bank accounts, and compliments, for instance.”  ― William H. Gass, On Being Blue

[yourdisappointedarms]

“We shall live for no reason. Then die and be done with it. What a recognition! What shall save us? Only the knowledge that we have lived without illusion, not excluding the illusion that something will save us.” Remembering a favorite... #williamhgass #american #novelist #shortstorywriter #essayist #critic #philosopher #therecognitions (at Chagrin Falls, Ohio) https://www.instagram.com/p/BrDgxnGAh8D/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1xxyo383grtb0

[tiffthetimetraveler]

Take note all you Alchemists, go take those lead bricks and and use them to build golden worlds #alchemist #worldbuilder #worlddestroyer #williamhgass #quote #writer #writing #writemeow

[theproseapp]

Do you believe in #magic? "The true alchemists do not change lead into gold; they change the world into words." -William H. Gass #writing #inspiration #quotes #prose #WilliamHGass (image via: giantbomb.com)

[perstephonebartusisyphus]

Our concern that the human race might not endure has been succeeded by the fear it will survive. Oh--Skizzen oh'd, in his sermons to, in his repertoire of, himself. Oh--the decomposition of man will stench the sky at first but how immeasurably it will manure the soil, how thoroughly it will improve the land with all those fine bones added, while plants cover and trees stand. For worms the climate will be tropical, they will grow longer than tunnels, and their four hearts beat for blocks. Lakes will deepen and be blue again. Clean sky will harbor happy winds. Mountainsides of aspens will be able to color and flutter without having their picture taken. Waterfalls will fall free of enterprising eyes. It will be grand. Unless there is a universal flood and fish school in corner offices; unless there is an atomic wind and an image of our race is burned into the side of a glass cliff; unless glaciers creep down from the North almost as blue as green as winedark as the solidifying sea. The thought that mankind might not endure has been replaced by the fear it may luck out. End zone the end zone, Armageddon's final field was nearly laid out once before. It was half a cataclysm--a clysm--maybe. Preliminary bout. A third of the world sickened during the three years of the Black Plague: 1348--1349--1350. And the plague swung its scythe four times, its last swatch reducing Europe to half of what it had been the century before: in 1388--1389--1390. They believed the disease was Evil advancing like an army. They said it was Satan's century. Diabolus in musica. That was before Passchendaele. The population of the planet diminished by a fifth. Those who suffered the plague and survived: they suggested to Joseph Skizzen the unpleasant likelihood that Man might squeak through even a loss at Armageddon, one death per second not fast enough, and outlive the zapping of the planet, duck a fleet of meteors, hunkerbunker through a real world war with cannons going grump to salute out last breath as if horror were a ceremony, emerge to sing bombs bursting, endure the triggers of a trillion guns amorously squeezed until every nation's ammo was quite spent, and all the private stock was fired off at the life and livestock of a neighbor, so that in battle's final silence one could hear only the crash after crash of financial houses, countless vacuum cleaners, under their own orders, sucking up official lies, contracts screaming like lettuce shredded for a salad, outcries from the crucifixion of caring borne on the wind as if an ode, the screech of every wheel as it becomes uninvented, brief protests from dimming tubes, destimulated wires; though the slowing of most functions would go on in silence, shit merded up in the street to be refried by aberrant microwaves, diseases coursing about and competing for victims, slowdowns coming to standstills without a sigh, until the heavy quiet of war's cease is broken by...by what? might we imagine boils bursting out of each surviving eye...the accumulated pus of perception? a burst like what? like trumpets blowing twenty centuries of pointless noise at an already deaf world...with what sort of sound exactly? with a roar that rattles nails already driven in their boards so... so that, as the sound comes through their windows, houses will heave and sag into themselves, as unfastened as flesh from a corset; yet out of every heap of rubble, smoking ruin, ditch of consanguineous corpses, could creep a survivor--he was a survivor, Joseph Skizzen, faux doctor and musician--someone born of ruin as flies are from offal; that from a cave of collection of shattered trees there might emerge a creature who could thrive on a prolonged diet of phlegm soup and his own entrails even, and in spite of every imaginable catastrophe salvage at least a remnant of his race with the strength, the interest, the spunk, to fuck on, fuck on like Christian soldier, stiff-pricked still, with some sperm left with the ability to engender, to fuck on, so what if with one leg or a limp, fuck on, or a severed tongue, fuck on, or a blind eye, fuck on, in order to multiply, first to spread and then to gather, to confer, to wonder why, to invent, to philosophize, accumulate, connive: to wonder, why this punishment? to wonder, why this pain? why did we--among the we'd that were--survive? wha was accomplished that couldn't have been realized otherwise? why were babies born to be so cruelly belabored back into the grave? who of our race betrayed our trust? what was the cause of our bad luck? what divine plan did this disaster further? why were grandfathers tortured by the deaths they were about to sigh for? why?...but weren't we special? we few, the leftovers, without a tree to climb, we must have been set aside, saved for a moment of magnificence! to be handed the trophy, awarded the pride; because the Good Book, we would--dumb and blind--still believe in, said a remnant would be saved; because the good, the great, the wellborn and internetted, the rich, the incandescent stars, will win through, that...that...that we believed, we knew, God will see to our good outcome, he will see, see to it, if he hasn't had a belly full, if the liar's, the liar's beard is not on fire like Santa Claus stuck in a chimney.

'Middle C' by William H. Gass  

A type of catharsis, healthy or not, I still love fiction in the gloom of the rainiest year ever.

I'm quoting this book because I'm recently, and in reading this, finding myself delightfully appalled with the book and myself. In that I so easily venture into strongly identifying with the protagonist but self-righteously admonishing his mindset and longing for the path that says simply 'lighten up, dizzy' while simultaneously adopting chicken littleian doctrine, missing out(?) on vital joys. Mainly, the thing that happens when I am imagining that we're all already dead and each moment passing is some boring tragedy. How many Skizzens are there and are you also uncomfortably hiding beneath the ever-wide and strangely loving wings of your parents?