Crit Quotes

What does literature do better than anything else? It provides a detailed representation of the inner experience of being alive in a given time and place.

Dear Aspiring Writer, you are not ready. Stop. Put that finished story away and start another one. In a month, go back and look at the first story. RE-EDIT it. Then send it to a person you respect in the field who will be hard on you. Pray for many many many red marks. Fix them. Then put it away for two weeks. Work on something else. Finally, edit one last time. Now you are ready to sub your first work. Criticism is hard to take at first. Trust me, I've been there. But learn to think of crit marks as a knife. Each one is designed to cut away the bad and leave a scar. Scars prove you've lived, learned and walked away a winner. Any writer who tells you they don't need edits is lying. I don't care if they have 100 books out. Edits make you grow and if you aren't growing as a writer, you are dead.

Never in your life have you been helpless—under somebody’s heel. You never lived where your enemies held power over you, power to run your life or wipe it out. You can’t understand. That’s how come you stand there feeding me empty slogans!” Luciente bowed her head. “You crit me justly, Connie. Forgive me. I’ll try to see your situation more clearly and make less loud noises in your ears.

The notion of literature as only one of several avenues to a single type of propositional knowledge is, of course, hardly the winning ticket in lit-crit today. More typical are sentiments that see such a notion as not even admissible, if at all desirable. The world of these academic refuseniks is, however, a bleak and sterile place. Disarmed by their own epistemic fiat, scholars cannot assert anything since they deny the idea of objective rationality. If they arrive at an insight whose truth they wish to defend – for example that truth and rationality are passé – they can’t do so because truth and rationality are constructed to be constructed.

I get sick thinking about some idiot trying to wheedle insight on my apparatus criticus from my ghost long after I’ve forgotten what it was.

Don't just crit there siticising.

I get sickthinking about some idiot trying to wheedle insight on my apparatus criticus from my ghost long after I’ve forgotten what it was

However, an artist is limited only by his own skill and imagination. He’s in total control of his art. Whereas nature is the artist here, and I merely try to interpret and manage her design.

Never lightly assume that clarity is the unclouded aim of ... allegory.

Kelly wears her hair swept back in an odd 1940s pompadour that one writer assumed must be her “auxiliary brain.

Believe it or not, stories don’t function in terms of beginnings, middles and ends, they simply have beginnings, middles, and ends.

ANYTHING IN THIS UNIVERSE CAN BE A STORY WORTH TELLING, AS LONG AS YOU KNOW HOW TO BEST TELL IT.

IT IS NOT ABOUT SYMPATHY OR LIKEABILITY, EITHER. EMPATHY IS ABOUT THE TRANSLATION OF FEELING.

You have there the myth of the essential white America. All the other stuff, the love, the democracy, the floundering into lust, is a sort of by-play. The essential American soul is hard, isolate, stoic, and a killer. It has never yet melted.

Only the right hemisphere has the capacity to understand metaphor.100 That might not sound too important – like it could be a nice thing if one were going to do a bit of lit crit. But that is just a sign of the degree to which our world of discourse is dominated by left-hemisphere habits of mind. Metaphoric thinking is fundamental to our understanding of the world, because it is the only way in which understanding can reach outside the system of signs to life itself. It is what links language to life.

If one Googles “critical theory,” the first thing that pops up is a boxed definition that states: “crit-i-cal the-o-ry, noun, a philosophical approach to culture, and especially to literature, that seeks to confront the social, historical, and ideological forces and structures that produce and constrain it. The term is applied particularly to the work of the Frankfurt School.”630 That is precisely correct. Note the words “culture” and “Frankfurt School.” Modern critical theory has grown out of that early Freudian-Marxism of the Frankfurt School.

BUT TRANSFORMERS ROTF(L) SUCKS BECAUSE IT IS A TERRIBLY TOLD STORY WITH ENDLESS BLOAT, NO MOMENTUM, PAPER THIN CHARACTERIZATION, NO CHARACTER CONSISTENCY, NO ACTUAL RELATIONSHIPS, POORLY ARTICULATED CONFLICTS, ZERO SENSE OF DRAMA, A WEIRD-AS-HELL TONE, AND A WHOLE LOT OF SEXISM AND RACISM TO BOOT.

THE BASIC EXISTENCE OF EMPATHY IS WHY MOST OF US DON'T SPEND EVERY SECOND OF THE DAY CLUBBING EACH OTHER OVER THE HEAD AND STEALING EACH OTHER'S GROCERIES. EVEN IN A WORLD CONTAINING CRIME, DEPRAVITY, AND WAR, IT IS EMPATHY THAT ALLOWS US TO SOMETIMES REFRAIN FROM THOSE VERY THINGS. WHICH MEANS IT'S WHY WE SURVIVE AS A SPECIES.

Escric tan de pressa com puc, però soc incapaç de seguir el ritme de la Mariche. Ha dit puta i mare soltera a l'Ona. La Salome s'ha aixecat de la galleda de munyir. Parla amb la Mariche a crits. Li diu que a l'Ona la van deixar inconscient i la van violar, com a tantes d'altres, i ara, com a conseqüència, està embarassada. Com s'atreveix la Mariche a dir puta a l'Ona! Déu, en la creació del món, va adormir profundament Adam i, menter dormia, li va llevar una de les costelles, que va fer servir per crear Eva. Adam era una puta? La Mariche exclama: Adam era un home! La Salome no li fa cas, i continua: Que vols dir que Adam va ser-ne l'instigador? Que es podia protegir?

We are now ready to tackle Dickens. We are now ready to embrace Dickens. We are now ready to bask in Dickens. [...] If it were possible I would like to devote fifty minutes of every class meeting to mute meditation, concentration, and admiration of Dickens. However, my job is to direct and rationalize those meditations, that admiration. All we have to do when reading Bleak House is to relax and let our spines take over. Although we read with our minds, the seat of artistic delight is between the shoulder blades. That little shiver behind is quite certainly the highest form of emotion that humanity has attained when evolving pure art and pure science. Let us worship the spine and its tingle.

Estimem la ciutat dels beocis i volem que sigui eterna, a desgrat dels pressentiments de Tirèsias, el qual mou, pesarós, el cap i ens prediu que serà destruïda. Però ell és cec i, encara que expert en el crit i el presagi dels ocells, ignora la claror de les estrelles. Prou comprenem, tan bé com l’endeví, que cal sepultar i perdonar, que cal procurar de complir la llei moral, aquesta flameta, dèbil, vacil.lant, tanmateix inapagable. Mai no pararíem de mostrar el sacrifici de la princesa, la lliçó del seu alt exemple. Però, criminosa com és, estulta, turbulenta i rica de males riqueses, que Tebes no sigui, en càstig, destruïda. Perquè hi ha la font, el cel, el riu de tots i pobres beocis que no en tenen gens la culpa.

When you start crafting a story and characters, there is something so crazy important that you must always keep it in the back of your mind: there is no single force on this planet more powerful than that of empathy...   Hulk knows your likely counter already: “Oh yeah, Hulk? Well what about Galactus! Galactus is totally the most powerful!!!!”   Pssssh. How does Galactus get defeated? It’s because Alicia Masters appeals to the Silver Surfer's sense of empathy, which causes him to join the Fantastic Four and defeat his former master!   Empathy, bitches. Empathy.

Besides,I like working outdoors. Pa and the boys have always let me help with the ranch chores." This was received with a raised eyebrow. "Indeed. How kind of them. Willow,the men in your family treat you more like a slave than the young lady you are. It's a sin, I tell you, a deplorable sin!" Willow shrugged. "Hell...er, ah, heck, I'd rather round up cows than be stuck in the house all day. Besides, there ain't much house work with Pa and the boys gone." "Humph! Too bad your pa didn't teach you more about the joys of being a lady." The girl bristled. "I am a lady! I may not wear those fancy, highfalutin clothes, or walk around looking helpless, but that ain't what really makes a lady, you know." "And what, pray tell, in your opinion, makes a lady, Willow?" "A woman is a lady as long as she keeps her distance from horny critters of the opposite sex." She grinned proudly and declared, "I do.That makes me a lady!" "Horny crit-" Shocked, Mrs. Brigham stared a moment, then nodded firmly. "My dear, someone needs to take you in hand, and I know my duty when I see it. Now listen to me, young lady-mind you, I use the term lightly. There's much more to being a lady than avoiding the opposite sex. For instance, ladies don't wear men's pants. Ladies don't herd cattle. And ladies don't smoke, curse, or sneak whiskey. I have it on good authority that you've done all those things and more. And, furthermore, ladies don't know the meaning of...horny!" Willow's lips pursed in annoyance. "Mrs. Brigham, I live with five men. They don't mince words just because I'm a woman." "Your father took the easy way out by raising you as another son. He's done you a terrible injustice.

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M'adono que la proximitat de la muntanya m'impacienta. Els boscos i les pedres fan que em senti viva, increïblement corpòria, amb el cap integrat al cos i els pensaments vessats a dins, arribant vermells de sang a cada cavitat i a cada esponja, tornant-se crits. Tota jo soc instint sense tamís, com les daines o els senglars. La carn em crida i m'aquissa a fer-m'ho amb algú altre.

But my main concern isn’t to defend science from the barbarian hordes of lit crit (we’ll survive just fine, thank you). Rather, my concern is explicitly political: to combat a currently fashionable postmodernist/poststructuralist/social-constructivist discourse—and more generally a penchant for subjectivism—which is, I believe, inimical to the values and future of the Left.

Si votar és delicte, aquí al banc dels acusats hauríem de ser milions de catalans.

L'1 d'octubre del 2017 va ser una jornada de celebració a Catalunya, unes votacions, la festa de la democràcia.

Mare nostra que esteu en el zel sigui santificat el vostre cony l’epidural, la llevadora, vingui a nosaltres el vostre crit el vostre amor, la vostra força. Faci’s la vostra voluntat al nostre úter sobre la terra. El nostre dia de cada dia doneu-nos avui. I no permeteu que els fills de puta avortin l’amor, facin la guerra, ans deslliureu-nos d’ells pels segles dels segles, Vagina. Anem…

JOIA Llum, galzes del migdia dels arbres que ara tanques, alta que acaricies les coloracions del temps—La fosca cella que el vent acotxa, cels d'escata de moll. Ànsia que et fas boca i el goig i el deler de ser l'aigua i els aires, plata encara, desesperant-se. Joia dels ulls, foc que encens, verda nit. Plomada de llum fosca la presència de besllum, sulla, al llindar. I els seus ulls flamissats, crits d'ala astorada el cel dels seus ulls ara, la brosta verd ànsia dels cors. Blanca mifa astorada és ara el cel. Pels cingles les flames dels arbres. Ja els crits cecs de la muntanya la nit que rep. Ja la vida, els seus ulls, incerta, flàmules.

Llum, galzes del migdia dels arbres que ara tanques, alta que acaricies les coloracions del temps—La fosca cella que el vent acotxa, cels d'escata de moll. Ànsia que et fas boca i el goig i el deler de ser l'aigua i els aires, plata encara, desesperant-se. Joia dels ulls, foc que encens, verda nit. Plomada de llum fosca la presència de besllum, sulla, al llindar. I els seus ulls flamissats, crits d'ala astorada el cel dels seus ulls ara, la brosta verd ànsia dels cors.

¿Quins crits que esglaien, nits que habites, per quins desvaris, de quin mal passat ara tornes a ser?

La naturalesa continuava somrient enmig de la destrucció inevitable. Reia l'agressor i reia la víctima fins que la vida se li rompia en un crit d'espant.

MALVIATGE! Un déu menor, exigent i mel·liflu, et té sotmès i la vida et transcorre entre sobtats aürts de la memòria i un cansament profund com un estigma. Secretament et contes mil facècies i molt sovint et buides les butxaques frisós i absent, amb por de retrobar-te. On són les veus i els gestos i les formes? On és l'enuig i el crit i les mirades? Se't fa de nit i no tens cap resposta; se't fa de nit i penses moltes coses, aviciat a destriar figures quan és ben fosc i el déu menor reposa. Odies aquest pou mort i l'estranya solemnitat de pedra i de crepuscle, odies aquest temps que et mig sustenta, i t'odies a tu, ninot grotesc, endeutat amb algú que, a poc a poc, et converteix per mofa en una mena de sorprenent i grotesc saltimbanqui.

Some praise at morning what they blame at night,But always think the last opinion right.A muse by these is like a mistress us’d,This hour she’s idoliz’d, the next abus’d.Pope’sEss. on Crit.

People are not suppose to be able to understand your writing, they are only suppose to realise your writing is brilliant, because it might just be the cure for insomnia.

I can tell how good a novel is by how it portrays Jesus.

EVER NOTICE THAT ALL ONE HOUR TV DRAMAS ARE ALL SEGMENTED INTO 5 ACTS? YES, IT’S DONE FOR COMMERCIAL BREAKS, BUT THAT MAGIC NUMBER IS NO ACCIDENT.

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AND WHAT THE YOUNG WRITERS ALL FAILED TO REALIZE IS THAT THE WAY YOU BEST CONNECT TO THE READER IS NOT BY CRAFTING THE MOST LYRICAL AND DAZZLING ARRAY OF WORDS, NOT BY BEING UNCLEAR AND HINTING AT YOUR MUDDLED MEANING THROUGH PLEASANT-SOUNDING VAGUERY, BUT BY COMMUNICATING A SEQUENCE OF MEANINGFUL IDEAS IN A WAY THE READER CAN ACTUALLY UNDERSTAND.

THAT IS SO IMPORTANT TO UNDERSTAND. IN FACT, IT IS THE REASON HULK PUT THE TWO HALVES OF INSPIRATION IN THAT ORDER. SO OFTEN PEOPLE THINK TO START WITH THE TINY NUGGETS AND THEN FIGURE OUT WHAT YOU WANT TO SAY LATER, BUT IT IS HULK’S EXPERIENCE THAT PEOPLE DON’T REALLY KNOW HOW TO DO THAT. AGAIN, SO MANY FILMS ARE VOICELESS. SO MANY FILMS SIMPLY SAY "I want to write about this textured, interesting person,” AND THINK THAT IT WILL SOMEHOW MAGICALLY PRODUCE A TEXTURED, INTERESTING STORY. A GOOD NARRATIVE HAS TO BE CREATED. CRAFTED. SLAVED OVER. WORKED THROUGH TIME AND TIME AGAIN BEFORE IT IS SOMETHING SO MUCH MORE. WHAT THIS DYNAMIC ACTUALLY SPEAKS TO IS THE GREAT LESSON THAT SINGULAR DETAILS ARE NOT STAND-INS FOR CHARACTERIZATION. FOR EXAMPLE, THERE HAVE BEEN A LOT OF RECENT MOVIES THAT HAVE GOTTEN INTO TROUBLE FOR ASSUMING TEXTURE AND CHARACTER DETAIL SOMEHOW IS THE SAME THING AS CHARACTER MOTIVE. WE DON’T NEED DETAILS TO TELL US WHO CHARACTERS ARE AND WHAT THEY LIKE, WE NEED DETAILS TO SHOW US WHAT CHARACTERS WANT AND NEED AND WHAT THEY WILL LIKELY DO. THIS IS THE HEART OF DRAMA (WELL… HULK WILL USE THIS PHRASE A LOT, SO IT’S ONE OF THEM).   AND

God is guts” — a pre-Hemingway and pre-Hammett apothegm of toughness — is from the hobo ballad “The Little Red God

Too many people, once they reach a comfortable position in life, forget the important role writers like Hammett — who dropped out of high school in his first year to work supporting his family — or Howard — struggling to break into the pulps with absolutely no professional advice and little encouragement — play in literature, just as they tend to ignore the role the working man and woman play in society.

Vos la presento: la tristesa se t’assenta a la vora del llit cada dematí i pinta núvols al paisatge. La tristesa et pronuncia a l’orella una paraula impecable, te repeteix un desig prenyat de bons propòsits i, en canvi, te planta un buit al ventre com una casa de pagès, com una cambra buida, com un crit en el buit molt sord. La tristesa no et deixa viure amb normalitat ni que sigui impostada. La tristesa pesa. T’aixafa el pit. Vesteixes una manta mullada. I el cos te tremola sempre una mica, d’una manera gairebé imperceptible però constant, fins i tot quan dorms. [...] No, a la tristesa no li has d’entregar sencera la vida, només li has de fer lloc a tots los espais de la casa, com un més de la família o com a un company de pis imbècil i inevitable, que has de mirar d’estimar, perquè la tristesa existeix igual que tu. Vestida d’un greu blavíssim, d’un blau gravíssim, i viu en un silenci brutal. La tristesa et deprimeix la llengua com ho fan els metges amb l’abaixallengües, amb una absoluta indiferència. Però sabeu què: a la tristesa se l’ha d’examinar molt a fons, molt a fons. No fos cas que un dia passés a la vora una alegria i no la sabéssem reconèixer.

I'll dunk you, little noob!" "Not if I crit first, noob!

En comptes d'arguments, empren mordasses: posen mordasses als seus contradictors. Ells no són els primers a fer-ho, no hi seran els últims, per desgràcia. Fan callar. Això és més fàcil i més segur que no pas discutir i refutar. Saben que no tenen raó, i per tant, no volen embrancar-se en raons, en raonaments. Només se senten tranquils quan han reduït els altres a silenci, Si fos per vigilar la malícia tèrbola o la protesta sense justificació, no triarien aquest mitjà: una mentida, en última instància, no costa gens de desmentir, i els clamors banals es desinflen al cap de cinc minuts. No és per això. Temen unes altres coses. I la solució consisteix a tancar les boques propenses a insolentar-se. Enmig d'aquest mutisme, encara, la veu d'ells fa més efecte; sembla créixer en autoritat. Monologuen, adoctrinen, prediquen, auguren. I la multitud es converteix en auditori forçós de la seva constant perorata. No tothom és capaç de tapar-se les orelles. A la llarga, certament, ningú no en fa cas; però sempre s'hi filtra alguna cosa, hi penetra, contamina. Els altres callen, emmordassats o no. Perquè la por de la mordassa és també una forma de mordassa. Hi ha, en l'aire, gairebé visible, molta còlera reprimida. Les paraules no dites, els crits ofegats, es trasmuden en ira. Com que ells ho saben, arriben a la conclusió que han fet ben fet: «Sort de la mordassa!», pensen. Potser s'equivoquen; potser no. No se sap mai. Mentrestant...

Nunc autem manet fids, sps, crits—tria haec; maior autem hs est crits. (1 Corinthians 13.13:

he was lecturing at a local university and a literature class tried to tell him what Fahrenheit 451 was really about. They were wrong and he told them so. But they insisted that they were right. “No, you’re wrong,” he said. It went back and forth like this for some time, a lit-crit Ping-Pong volley, until, finally, incensed that the professor and his students thought they knew more about the work than the author who created it, Ray told them all to F-off. Afterward, angered, he stomped out of the room.

Marx’s remark about hunting, fishing, hobby farming and lit. crit. is the only attempt he makes to describe what life will be like without private property – and if you ask who gives you the gun or the fishing rod, who organizes the pack of hounds, who maintains the coverts and the waterways, who disposes of the milk and the calves and who publishes the lit. crit., such questions will be dismissed as ‘beside the point’, and as matters to be settled by a future that is none of your business.

Ja podien ploure crits i bronques, que la Zona Feliz arribava igualment, era qüestió de temps. No podien fer-li mal perquè ella, en realitat, ja no hi era. Però ho havia apostat tot al negre. Havia excavat un forat pel qual s'escolava la seva base i es perdia. No es pot esquivar el dolor sense esquivar la vida.

Sobretot cap a la posta de sol, quan el gorrió solitari deixa sentir la seva veu des de l'aresta de les roques, el crit estrident de les gavines i els corbs marins ens arriba des de l'abisme i l'àguila peixatera traça amplis cercles en el cel, dóna gust seure aquí, transportat a un elemental estat d'ànim, i seguir la vela parpallejant o el fum a penes visible d'un vapor a l'hortizó. La vida no sembla realitat, i amb prou feines es pot entendre que sigui possible oferir als nostres ulls tants de plaers de formes de paisatge i magnificiència de colors; car la mar és d'un blau ultramarí i na Foradada ha tornat de color de púrpura i projecta la seva ombra negra sobre les aigües transparents.

I have never seen such a sight in combat. Your aura blinded the Crits that enveloped you, then it turned as black as the starless void. You slaughtered all who touched you.

L'eco de la còlera té aquest poder: el poder de minimitzar l'enrabiada, el poder d'ensenyar-te que és absurd deixar anar quatre crits i perdre els estreps.

No hi ha res millor que fer que tu mateix suportis els teus crits. Prova-ho, et sentiràs millor, i de mica en mica ja no cridaràs, ja no t'enfadaràs, ja no escridassaràs els altres. Veuràs com n'ets, d'absurd, quan et comportes així.

IT’S NOT THAT ANYONE CAN BE A HERO, BUT THAT A HERO CAN COME FROM ANYWHERE. BUT THE KEY IS THAT THEY HAVE TO HAVE SOMETHING INSIDE THEM. A SPARK. A SENSE OF MORALITY. A YEARNING.