Retro Quotes

In the fashion industry, everything goes retro except the prices.

Every generation wants to be the last. Every generation hates the next trend in music they can't understand. We hate to give up those reins of our culture. To find our own music playing in elevators. The ballad for our revolution, turned into background music for a television commercial. To find our generation's clothes and hair suddenly retro.

I prefer the retro chic of spending Christmas just like Joseph and Mary did - Traveling arduously back to the place of your birth to be counted, with no guarantee of a bed when you get there.

It's simple. If you go to see 'Saturday Night Fever' expecting it to be good, it's a corker. However, if you go expecting it to be a crock of shit, it's that, too. Thus 'Saturday Night Fever' can exist in two mutually opposing states at the very same time, yet only by the weight of our expectations. From this principle we can deduce that any opposing states can be governed by human expectation - even, as in the case of retro-deficit-engineering, the present use of a future technology." "I think I understand that. Does it work with any John Travolta movie?" "Only the artistically ambiguous ones such as 'Pulp Fiction' or 'Face/Off.' 'Battlefield Earth' doesn't work, because it's a stinker no matter how much you think you're going to like it, and 'Get Shorty' doesn't work either, because you'd be hard-pressed not to enjoy it, irrespective of any preconceived notions.

For cripes sake, have you ever heard of 'Ready or not? Here I come'?" Retro or not, cheesy is cheesy." Sometimes what you learned from beer commercials comes in real handy.

It was a good hald minute before I looked over at Todd. his eyes were slightly foggy, like he was waking up- reluctantly- from a lascivious dream. "I didn't know they still made them like that," he said.... "Cool, tough, retro-manly. The kind who only cries if someone just ran over their dog. The big chested guy we can indulge our pathetic Daddy complexes with.

Retro is a symptom of a generation that is too lazy to innovate.

I prefer the retro chic of spending Christmas just like Mary and Joseph did- traveling arduously back to the place of your birth to be counted, with no guarantee of a bed when you get there. You may end up sleeping on an old wicker couch with a dog licking your face while an Ab Rocket informercial plays in the background. It's a modern-day manger.

I don't have low self-esteem. It's a mistake. I have low esteem for everyone else.

When I'm your boss, I'm implementing a corporate support uniform policy. No more of your weird little retro costumes. I've already got it circled in the Corporate Wear catalog. A gray shift dress." He pauses for effect. "Polyester. It's supposed to be knee length, so it should reach your ankles." I am insanely sensitive about my height and I absolutely hate synthetic fibers.

Ketawalah kalau itu boleh mendatangkan kegembiraan kepadamu

I am fat with love! Husky with ardor! Morbidly obese with devotion! A happy, busy bumblebee of marital enthusiasm. I positively hum around him, fussing and fixing. I have become a strange thing. I have become a wife. I find myself steering the ship of conversations- bulkily, unnaturally- just so I can say his name aloud. I have become a wife, I have become a bore, I have been asked to forfeit my Independent Young Feminist card. I don't care. I balance his checkbook, I trim his hair. I've gotten so retro, at one point I will probably use the word pocketbook, shuffling out the door in my swingy tweed coat, my lips red, on the way to the beauty parlor. Nothing bothers me. Everything seems like it will turn out fine, every bother transformed into an amusing story to be told over dinner. 'So I killed a hobo today, honey...hahahaha! Ah, we have fun

It’s not a crime to wish for other worlds. You’ll get taxed for it but they can’t throw you in jail for creating your own private world…yet. Dramatics are fun, an indulgence. ‘You can’t go backward,’ ‘You can’t live in the past,’ they tell you. Why not? ‘You’ve got to put all that behind you and move on to other things,’ they say. Bullshit! These are all expressions of modern disposability. It’s a mediocritizing technique—trying to get rid of what I call ‘past orthodoxies.’ It’s our past that makes us unique, therefore it’s our past that economic interests want to rob from us, so they can sell us a new, improved future. Society now depends on a disposable world—out with the old, in with the new, including relationships. But how we weep and wish we could hold onto those cherished moments forever, to those long-whispered dreams, those tortured nights—how we want to grasp them and stop them from sifting through our fingers. I say, ‘Don’t let it happen. Keep things the way you want them and let the rest of the world be duped.

I should do what I normally do. Except that’s sit in my sister’s room and watch retro vampire shows while half reading Ulysses.

The danger of restorative nostalgia lies in its belief that the mutilated 'wholeness' of the body politic can be repaired. But the reflective nostalgic understands deep down that loss is irrecoverable: Time wounds all wholes. To exist in Time is to suffer through an endless exile, a successive severing from those precious few moments of feeling at home in the world. In pop terms, Morrissey is the supreme poet of reflective nostalgia.

Every generation wants to be the last. Every generation hates the next trend in music they can't understand. We hate to give up those reins of our culture. To find our own music playing in elevators. The ballad for our revolution, turned into background music for a television commercial. To find our generation's clothes and hair suddenly retro.

Kasyanov, I think I’ve made it pretty clear,” Lachance said. “Our attitude controls is damaged beyond repair, retro capability is down to thirty percent. Several containment bulkheads are cracked, and there’s a good chance if we initiate thrust we’ll just flash-fry ourselves with radiation.” He paused briefly. “We do still have coffee, though. That’s one positive.

Kita hidup bukan untuk memuaskan kehendak kita, tapi untuk cari reda Allah. Kalau kita betul cinta pada Allah, kita buat sajalah apa yang Allah suruh. Kalau ada apa-apa suruhan Allah itu bertentangan dengan kehendak kita, anggaplah sebagai bukti pengorbanan saja. Mana ada cinta yang tak perlukan pengorbanan. Cinta dengan pengorbanan ini lebih manis.Cinta yang telah teruji.

Orang yang jadi orang dia akan tahu siapa dia dan siapa tuhan dia. Orang yang jadi orang akan jaga hubungannya dengan Tuhan dia dan akan jaga juga hubungan dia dengan makhluk yang Tuhan cipta.

Il vento di marzo è un vento malato, diceva sempre mia madre. Eppure è piacevole, odora di linfa e ozono e del sale di mari lontani. Un buon mese, marzo, con febbraio che vola via dalla porta sul retro e la primavera che aspetta a quella principale. Un buon mese per un cambiamento.

[[ ]] The story goes like this: Earth is captured by a technocapital singularity as renaissance rationalization and oceanic navigation lock into commoditization take-off. Logistically accelerating techno-economic interactivity crumbles social order in auto sophisticating machine runaway. As markets learn to manufacture intelligence, politics modernizes, upgrades paranoia, and tries to get a grip. The body count climbs through a series of globewars. Emergent Planetary Commercium trashes the Holy Roman Empire, the Napoleonic Continental System, the Second and Third Reich, and the Soviet International, cranking-up world disorder through compressing phases. Deregulation and the state arms-race each other into cyberspace. By the time soft-engineering slithers out of its box into yours, human security is lurching into crisis. Cloning, lateral genodata transfer, transversal replication, and cyberotics, flood in amongst a relapse onto bacterial sex. Neo-China arrives from the future. Hypersynthetic drugs click into digital voodoo. Retro-disease. Nanospasm.

His eyesight was possessed by the colours of trauma, cracking and bubbling like an old Super Eight film to remind him of his near-death drowning some two months ago in that very moment when he needed to act.

See, phrenology is this old Victorian science, which claimed you could determine the dominant traits of a man's personality by studying the bumps on his head. The size and position of these bumps indicated different personality traits. See? Now, /retro-phrenology/ says, why not change a man's personality by hitting him on the head with a hammer, till you raise just the right bumps in the right places!" "One of us needs a lot more drinks," said Alex. "That's starting to make sense.

If life is a movie most people would consider themselves the star of their own feature. Guys might imagine they're living some action adventure epic. Chicks maybe are in a rose-colored fantasy romance. And homosexuals are living la vida loca in a fabulous musical. Still others may take the indie approach and think of themselves as an anti-hero in a coming of age flick. Or a retro badass in an exploitation B movie. Or the cable man in a very steamy adult picture. Some people's lives are experimental student art films that don't make any sense. Some are screwball comedies. Others resemble a documentary, all serious and educational. A few lives achieve blockbuster status and are hailed as a tribute to the human spirit. Some gain a small following and enjoy cult status. And some never got off the ground due to insufficient funding. I don't know what my life is but I do know that I'm constantly squabbling with the director over creative control, throwing prima donna tantrums and pouting in my personal trailor when things don't go my way. Much of our lives is spent on marketing. Make-up, exercise, dieting, clothes, hair, money, charm, attitude, the strut, the pose, the Blue Steel look. We're like walking billboards advertising ourselves. A sneak peek of upcoming attractions. Meanwhile our actual production is in disarray--we're over budget, doing poorly at private test screenings and focus groups, creatively stagnant, morale low. So we're endlessly tinkering, touching up, editing, rewriting, tailoring ourselves to best suit a mass audience. There's like this studio executive in our heads telling us to cut certain things out, make it "lighter," give it a happy ending, and put some explosions in there too. Kids love explosions. And the uncompromising artist within protests: "But that's not life!" Thus the inner conflict of our movie life: To be a palatable crowd-pleaser catering to the mainstream... or something true to life no matter what they say?

Whatever your medium, the goal of any arts practice is to develop a greater set of skills for dealing with challenges. Experience will help you close that gap between your own vision and the piece's final execution.

Ah, that's your problem," Riley said, relieved to be on familiar ground. "You've got a copy of Paradise Lost in your house. Biblios hate Milton. Same with Dante, C.S. Lewis and most holy books. They'll go after those every time.

The politics that enter the university are those that come from history, a retro politics, emptied of substance and legalized in their superficial exercise.

It’s the hipsters,” David said. “It’s retro. They need a place to convene and argue whether Holden Caulfield was deep or just a spoiled brat.

Grouses that go unheard only grow louder, till they reach a level of frustration where they become silent but permanent disappointments.

My eyes are darting to all the places my magazines are hidden. I feel like an idiot sometimes for having printed evidence. My friends look at stuff on their phones like it's their job. Don't get me wrong, I've looked, and there's some alright stuff online, but I prefer the magazines. I guess I'm a retro sort of man. Call me classy.

We were totally high and we had Quiet Riot play at our after-show party at the Dragonfly. I think we reunited them, just like we did W.A.S.P. We take sole responsibility for the return of retro heavy metal, and I’m ashamed. But

Listening is the key. The whole objective of a howl is to be heard.

Everything in this town is retro, which accounts for the large supply of black vintage items in Accessories. The past is so much safer, because whatever’s in it has already happened. It can’t be changed; so, in a way, there’s nothing to dread. She

Los Angeles was the most glamorous, tackiest, most elegant, seediest, most clever, dumbest, most beautiful, ugliest, forward-looking, retro-thinking, altruistic, self-absorbed, deal-savvy, politically ignorant, artistic-minded, criminal-loving, meaning-obsessed, money-grubbing, laid-back, frantic city on the planet. And any two slices of it, as different as Bel Air and Watts, were nevertheless uncannily alike in essence: rich with the same crazy hungers, hopes, and despairs.

O frati", dissi "che per cento milia perigli siete giunti a l’occidente, a questa tanto picciola vigilia d’i nostri sensi ch’è del rimanente, non vogliate negar l’esperienza, di retro al sol, del mondo sanza gente. Considerate la vostra semenza: fatti non foste a viver come bruti, ma per seguir virtute e canoscenza".

One thing I like about the 1950s is that kids were hip without any sense of irony about it.  They were dressing in fifties cool-cat clothing with complete sincerity.  Nobody wanted to be“retro”back then. With the Depression still fresh in everybody’s mind, did anyone in the 1950s dress up as the Joad family from The Grapes of Wrath, and go to Dust Bowl-themed parties because they thought it was cool?  Probably not.  In the past, the past was something you wanted to forget about rather than romanticize.  I really miss those days. 

That was 1993 grunge in suburbia. This was 2003 hell in Harlem. (Dark City Lights)

Tudo isso porque ter vencido me daria sobrevivência, mas Leona? Leona me dava vontade de viver.

too old to be fashionable but not too old enough to be retro.

To this day, George H.W. Bush remains the only real-life president to congratulate superheroes in videogames for a job well done.

A punishment is not self-explanatory. It serves no purpose until the person serving it knows the real reason for being punished.

a Biblio-Fiend. It might be small, but it could rip through a library like a chainsaw when it was in the proper mood. Which was pretty much all the time.

My brothers are retro-refugees in the new exile of the asylum-seekers' hostel.

Whose idea was it to replace the chrome knobs and push buttons on car radios with 'touch screens'?

...What's more, I live in Berkeley, California. If princesses had infiltrated OUR little retro hippie hamlet, imagine what was going on places where women actually shaved their legs!

Allowing for the two types of year (leap and normal), and the seven possible days a year can start on, there are only fourteen calendars to choose from. When I was shopping for a 2019 calendar (non–leap year, starting on a Tuesday), I knew it would be the same as the one for 2013, so I could pick up a secondhand one at a discount price. Actually, for some retro charm, I hunted down one from 1985.

My outfit might be retro, but my thinking isn’t. Cross-dressing’s only a problem if you think being like a woman somehow makes a man less. And I’ve read far too much Vogue to fall for that bullshit, thanks.

America has no now. We're reluctant to acknowledge the present. It's too embarrassing. Instead, we reach into the past. Our culture is composed of sequels, reruns, remakes, revivals, reissues, re-releases, recreations, reenactments, adaptations, anniversaries, memorabilia, oldies radio, and nostalgia record collections. World War II has been refought so many times, the Germans and Japanese are now drawing residuals.

Her mental list of items she’d need from her apartment was growing. There were things a girl just couldn’t live without, so Keegan would have to get them when he retrieved Muffin. “I need another purse. Can you get me my Prada knockoff? It’s in my closet on the shelf. Pink. It’s pink. I got it from a vendor in Manhattan. Jeez he was a tough negotiator, but it was worth the haggling. It’s soooo cute.” Keegan sighed, raspy and long. “Okay.” “Oh! And my nail polish. I have two new bottles in the bathroom under the sink in one of those cute organizer baskets, you know? Like the ones you get at Bed Bath and Beyond? God, I love those. Anyway, I need Retro Red and Winsome Wisteria.” Another sigh followed, and then a nod of consent. “My moisturizer. I never go anywhere, not even overnight, without my moisturizer. Not that I ever really go anywhere, but anyway I need it, or my skin will dehydrate and it could just be ugly. Top left side of my medicine cabinet.” “Er, okay.” “My shoes. I can’t be without shoes. Let’s see. I need my tennis shoes and my white sandals, because I don’t think there’s much hope for these, wouldn’t you say?” Marty looked up at him and saw impatience written all over his face. “And my laptop. I can’t check on my clients without my laptop, and they need me. Plus, there’s that no-good bitch Linda Fisher. I have to watch that she’s not stealing my accounts. Do you have all of that?” He gave her that stern look again. The one that made her insides skedaddle around even if it was meant in reproach. “I’m going too far, huh?” His smile was crooked. “Just a smidge.

La miseria del viejo moribundo te dio más asco que lástima, sobre todo cuando te agarró la mano y te dijo que te aseguraras de morirte con alguien al lado, porque no hay nada más triste que no saber quién nos va a cerrar los ojos…

I’m not sure how the ponies happened, though I have an inkling: “Can I get you anything?” I’ll say, getting up from a dinner table, “Coffee, tea, a pony?” People rarely laugh at this, especially if they’ve heard it before. “This party’s ‘sposed to be fun,” a friend will say. “Really? Will there be pony rides?” It’s a nervous tic and a cheap joke, cheapened further by the frequency with which I use it. For that same reason, it’s hard to weed it out of my speech – most of the time I don’t even realize I’m saying it. There are little elements in a person’s life, minor fibers that become unintentionally tangled with your personality. Sometimes it’s a patent phrase, sometimes it’s a perfume, sometimes it’s a wristwatch. For me, it is the constant referencing of ponies. I don’t even like ponies. If I made one of my throwaway equine requests and someone produced an actual pony, Juan-Valdez-style, I would run very fast in the other direction. During a few summers at camp, I rode a chronically dehydrated pony named Brandy who would jolt down without notice to lick the grass outside the corral and I would careen forward, my helmet tipping to cover my eyes. I do, however, like ponies on the abstract. Who doesn’t? It’s like those movies with the animated insects. Sure, the baby cockroach seems cute with CGI eyelashes, but how would you feel about fifty of her real-life counterparts living in your oven? And that’s precisely the manner in which the ponies clomped their way into my regular speech: abstractly. “I have something for you,” a guy will say on our first date. “Is it a pony?” No. It’s usually a movie ticket or his cell phone number. But on our second date, if I ask again, I’m pretty sure I’m getting a pony. And thus the Pony drawer came to be. It’s uncomfortable to admit, but almost every guy I have ever dated has unwittingly made a contribution to the stable. The retro pony from the ‘50s was from the most thoughtful guy I have ever known. The one with the glitter horseshoes was from a boy who would later turn out to be straight somehow, not gay. The one with the rainbow haunches was from a librarian, whom I broke up with because I felt the chemistry just wasn’t right, and the one with the price tag stuck on the back was given to me by a narcissist who was so impressed with his gift he forgot to remover the sticker. Each one of them marks the beginning of a new relationship. I don’t mean to hint. It’s not a hint, actually, it’s a flat out demand: I. Want. A. Pony. I think what happens is that young relationships are eager to build up a romantic repertoire of private jokes, especially in the city where there’s not always a great “how we met” story behind every great love affair. People meet at bars, through mutual friends, on dating sites, or because they work in the same industry. Just once a coworker of mine, asked me out between two stops on the N train. We were holding the same pole and he said, “I know this sounds completely insane, bean sprout, but would you like to go to a very public place with me and have a drink or something...?” I looked into his seemingly non-psycho-killing, rent-paying, Sunday Times-subscribing eyes and said, “Sure, why the hell not?” He never bought me a pony. But he didn’t have to, if you know what I mean.

Ho bevuto fino a impazzire, mi sono stordita con le droghe a sedici anni, sono sgattaiolata fuori con uomini adulti per andare all’ultimo spettacolo del Fillmore East, ho vissuto nuda nelle comuni e ho rubato. Ho scritto la mia tesi sul suicidio nella poesia contemporanea americana lavorando come barista mentre mi facevo scopare sul tavolo da biliardo nel retro. Sono stata un’assistente in una clinica per schizofrenici a Chelsea e capogruppo in un centro d’accoglienza per senzatetto sulla Trentesima. Ho seguito le tracce di Giovanna d’Arco in Francia, preso un treno per Roma a mezzanotte e indossato tacchi a spillo per una lesbica italiana feticista della pelle. Ho preso acidi per tre giorni sul treno da Montréal a Vancouver, dove ho passato una notte con un famoso musicista jazz musulmano che mi ha sedotto con il suo sassofono e le sue invocazioni predicatorie. Ho trovato il modo di entrare in campi di accoglienza per vittime di stupro in Bosnia, ho indossato il burqa nell’Afghanistan dei talebani, ho guidato caricata a caffè attraverso le strade minate del Kosovo. Dovevo vedere, sapere, toccare, trovare l’orecchio. Forse stavo inscenando la mia cattiveria, o cercando la mia bontà, o avvicinandomi alla disumanità più profonda per provare a capire come sopravvivere al peggio di cui siamo capaci. Poi sono andata in Congo, ed è là che tutto è andato in frantumi. Là, dove, in un solo colpo, i peggiori atti di crudeltà incontravano la più pura gentilezza. Ero arrivata fin là.

Lying on a beach [on Christmas] feels a little "first thought" to me. I prefer the retro chic of spending Christmas just like Joseph and Mary did - traveling arduously back to the place of your birth to be counted, with no guarantee of a bed when you get there.

Ting!Ajaibnya cinta. Kerana kita suka pada seseorang maka kita akan mudah menurut apa saja nasihat orang itu. Sekali beritahu saja sudah cukup. Sebab kita nak mengembirakan hati orang yang kita suka. Sebab cinta membuat kita mahu menjadikan diri kita menurut acuan orang itu.Tapi kalau tak suka,berbuihlah mulut syarah sepanjang hari pun, pahitlah sikit nak ikut. Jadi kerana itu kita kena pastikan kita jatuh cinta dengan orang yang boleh membawa kita ke arah kebaikan. Sebab kalau dia sebaliknya, mudahlah kita nak jadi jahat.

The torpedo launch console has big square plastic buttons—Flood Tube, Open Shuttle, Ready to Fire—that flash red or green, like something Q would have built into James Bond’s Aston Martin. The missile compartment has similarly retro-looking panels of buttons. They provided the setup for one of the more quotable things Murray said to me—a line that, were fewer precautions in place, could have joined “Houston, we’ve had a problem” or “Watch this” in the pantheon of understated taglines for calamity: “I wouldn’t lean on that.

She's shed her skins and plasma jeans, gets around in 2K retro gear like the frock she wears today; a loose, white elegy to what's been lost. Already she's flowing back into herself the way a river flows to fill a creek bed. But some hard layer has washed away and left her softer, more interested.

-Nellie Oswald no es una princesa. El inspector no entendía qué quería de él ese hombre vestido de blanco. Y yo tampoco tenía claro por qué Retro insistía tanto en ello. -Conozco a algunas princesas, y Nellie Oswald no tiene nada en común con ellas. [...] -Esta mujer vale más que cualquier princesa.

Cat got your tongue? Sounds like I'm going to have to do the talking because you are sitting there like you have a thousand questions but don't know how to ask one. Now, pay attention, I'm only taking this guided tour once. You snooze, you lose. I'm going to move my hand so you can see that this bad boy moves.

I had a hunch she was American. It was the retro bike. Chrome and turquoise, it had fenders as wide as a Chevrolet’s, tires as thick as a wheelbarrow’s, and appeared to weigh at least a hundred pounds. An expatriate’s whim, that bike. I was about to use it as a pretext for starting a conversation when the train stopped again.

Every generation wants to be the last. Every generation hates the next trend in music they can’t understand. We hate to give up those reins of our culture. To find our own music playing in elevators. The ballad for our revolution, turned into background music for a television commercial. To find our generation’s clothes and hair suddenly retro.

Because people like stuff. New stuff, even newer stuff. Stuff to replace old stuff with and old stuff that is so old it becomes retro stuff and starts being used instead of new stuff. Let me tell you, it's fun stuff. Sometimes we have to get rid of stuff to make room for new stuff. And then we start to miss the old stuff so much that we have to build new stuff that pretends to be the old stuff. Like when we put TV screens on the treadmills at the gym and then play videos of trees on them so that we feel like we're running through the forest. Yes, I know what you're thinking. Why don't you just go running into the forest to begin with? and it's completely ok to wonder that. You don't know any better. But you see, we had to cut down the trees in the forest in order to build a highway so we could drive our cars to the gym. And yes, I can already see what you're thinking: Why did you have to cut down the trees? But hey, what did you want us to do? They were standing in the middle of the highway. It's complicated stuff to explain.

The basic feeling around town was that one shouldn't get too hung up on the environment, feel too nostalgic for cleaner times, or be too retro; that wasn't what residents were 'supposed to feel.' That's because a fracking boom was on, and many new industries were on their way to Lake Charles to process the natural gas it freed from the cracked earth.

The cooker’s so old you’ve got to lean all the way inside and light it with an actual flame, risking certain death in the process. I know better than to bring up replacing it, because it’s a discussion we’ve had too many times over the years. Mum thinks it’s retro and cool. I, on the other hand, work hard not to think of Sylvia Plath every time I look at it.

Most often a woman marries a man that she hopes to make perfect and a man marries his perfect woman.

When you love someone, you often surprise yourself with the kind of forbearance you can show in the face of total exasperation.

Basically, the only truth is that we all lie.

It's not a love of the old as such. It's simply that the process of aging or deterioration provides the necessary detachment - or arouses a necessary sympathy.

No one rises from the ashes of their past without the scars of their story.

You double bolted your door against the psychopath with the chainsaw, only to be stabbed in the back by your lover, husband, son or neighbour.

I feel as though dispossessed from the semblances of some crystalline reality to which I’d grown accustomed, and to some degree, had engaged in as a participant, but to which I had, nevertheless, grown inexplicably irrelevant. But the elements of this phenomenon are now quickly dissolving from memory and being replaced by reverse-engineered Random Access actualizations of junk code/DNA consciousness, the retro-coded catalysts of rogue cellular activity. The steel meshing titters musically and in its song, I hear a forgotten tale of the Interstitial gaps that form pinpoint vortexes at which fibers (quanta, as it were) of Reason come to a standstill, like light on the edge of a Singularity. The gaps, along their ridges, seasonally infected by the incidental wildfires in the collective unconscious substrata. Heat flanks passageways down the Interstices. Wildfires cluster—spread down the base trunk Axon in a definitive roar: hitting branches, flaring out to Dendrites to give rise to this release of the very chemical seeds through which sentience is begotten. Float about the ether, gliding a gentle current, before skimming down, to a skip over the surface of a sea of deep black with glimmering waves. And then, come to a stop, still inanimate and naked before any trespass into the Field, with all its layers that serve to veil. Plunge downward into the trenches. Swim backwards, upstream, and down through these spiraling jets of bubbles. Plummet past the threshold to trace the living history of shadows back to their source virus. And acquire this sense that the viruses as a sample, all of the outlying populations withstanding: they have their own sense of self-importance, too. Their own religion. And they mine their hosts barren with the utilitarian wherewithal that can only be expected of beings with self-preservationist motives.

to underscore the agreeably retro nature of the driving experience in Australia, I began to discover that radio stations in country towns specialize in songs from yesteryear. I don’t mean songs from the sixties and seventies, but much earlier. This may be the last country in the world where you can turn on a car radio and stand a more than passing chance of hearing Peggy Lee

The handsome Vintage Internationals edition of Nabokov’s Ada, or, Ardor—an extended riff on alternate-world and time theories and a key early example in the retro-futuristic subgenre of science fiction that years later came to be known as steampunk—would look out of place in the science-fiction section, with the blue-foil lettering, the starships, the furry-faced aliens, the electron-starred vistas of cyberspace.

Una mattina presto trovo Realm sulla porta che dà sul retro, con un gran sorriso stampato sulla faccia. [...] Lui apre la controporta, lasciando entrare una brezza leggera che profuma d'erba. Guardo fuori e sgrano gli occhi: ci sono sei cervi nel nostro giardino, tra cui un cucciolo. Sono bellissimi. Faccio un passo verso di loro e mi posa un braccio sulle spalle. - A volte ci scordiamo che le cose belle esistono - bisbiglio.

If the Edwards boys were fazed by the obvious signs of poverty in the apartment (the worn-out brown carpet; the retro TV sitting on a coffee table across from the sofa; the fan in the corner struggling to do the job of an AC; the fake flowers hanging on the wall and doing nothing to brighten the living room), they did not show it. They acted as if they were in any of the apartments they visited on Park or Madison, as if it were just a different kind of beautiful apartment in a different kind of nice neighborhood.

We saw that four different voices respond to this crisis by suggesting differing pathways forward: the first three are the retro-voices, which suggest returning to the global field structure of Field 1 (autocratic and state-driven: regulation, law and order), Field 2 (market-driven: deregulation), or Field 3 (stakeholder negotiation-driven: dialogue), respectively. The fourth voice, however, suggests that there is no way back. Retreat is impossible because circumstances have changed. This is why we need to go forward to the next evolutionary stage of the global economy (ecosystem-driven: seeing and acting from the emerging whole).

And on Sunday we went to the flea market and it was so cool. Nicola said she wanted to look at pictures and fabrics, so Carey and I went to an amazing part, called the Marché Malik, all retro stuff, and I got this denim jacket, it’s just gorgeous, got all flowers embroidered on it, so much cooler than some mass-produced thing from Hollister. I’ll go and get it.’ ‘And there we were spending squillions on one from Hollister,’ said Bianca, ‘so uncool. Silly us not to know. I’m not sure about this friendship, Patrick.’ Patrick grinned at her. ‘It won’t last. They’ll probably fall out next term.’ ‘And I really don’t like this thing of giving her cocktails. So

Înţelegem poate cel mai bine inconştientul, concepându-l ca pe un organ natural cu o energie productivă specifică. Dacă produsele sale nu sunt receptate de conştiinţă, ca urmare a refulărilor, apare un fel de retro-stază. o inhibiţie nefirească a unei funcţii oportune, la fel ca atunci când bila, produsul natural al funcţiei hepatice, este împiedicată să se verse în intestin. Ca urmare a refulării apar scurgeri psihice false. După cum bila trece în sânge, tot aşa conţinutul refulat iradiază în alte zone sufleteşti şi fiziologice. În isterie sunt perturbate în special funcţiile fiziologice, în alte nevroze ca fobii, obsesii şi nevroze obsesionale sunt perturbate mai ales funcţiile sufleteşti, inclusiv visele.

I love analogies! Let’s have one. Imagine that you dearly love, absolutely crave, a particular kind of food. There are some places in town that do this particular cuisine just amazingly. Lots of people who are into this kind of food hold these restaurants in high regard. But let’s say, at every single one of these places, every now and then throughout the meal, at random moments, the waiter comes over and punches any women at the table right in the face. And people of color and/or LGBT folks as well! Now, most of the white straight cis guys who eat there, they have no problem–after all, the waiter isn’t punching them in the face, and the non-white, non-cis, non-straight, non-guys who love this cuisine keep coming back so it can’t be that bad, can it? Hell, half the time the white straight cis guys don’t even see it, because it’s always been like that and it just seems like part of the dining experience. Granted, some white straight cis guys have noticed and will talk about how they don’t like it and they wish it would stop. Every now and then, you go through a meal without the waiter punching you in the face–they just give you a small slap, or come over and sort of make a feint and then tell you they could have messed you up bad. Which, you know, that’s better, right? Kind of? Now. Somebody gets the idea to open a restaurant where everything is exactly as delicious as the other places–but the waiters won’t punch you in the face. Not even once, not even a little bit. Women and POC and LGBT and various combinations thereof flock to this place, and praise it to the skies. And then some white, straight, cis dude–one of the ones who’s on record as publicly disapproving of punching diners in the face, who has expressed the wish that it would stop (maybe even been very indignant on this topic in a blog post or two) says, “Sure, but it’s not anything really important or significant. It’s getting all blown out of proportion. The food is exactly the same! In fact, some of it is awfully retro. You’re just all relieved cause you’re not getting punched in the face, but it’s not really a significant development in this city’s culinary scene. Why couldn’t they have actually advanced the state of food preparation? Huh? Now that would have been worth getting excited about.” Think about that. Seriously, think. Let me tell you, being able to enjoy my delicious supper without being punched in the face is a pretty serious advancement. And only the folks who don’t get routinely assaulted when they try to eat could think otherwise.

Dante - Divina Commedia - Inferno, Canto XXVI - Racconto dell'ultimo viaggio di Ulisse: Ulisse arrivato alle famose colonne d'Ercole, per convincere i suoi all'impresa mai arrischiata, pronunciò la famosa «orazion picciola»: «"O frati," dissi, "che per cento milia perigli siete giunti a l'occidente, a questa tanto picciola vigilia d'i nostri sensi ch'è del rimanente non vogliate negar l'esperïenza, di retro al sol, del mondo sanza gente. Considerate la vostra semenza: fatti non foste a viver come bruti, ma per seguir virtute e canoscenza".» (vv. 112-120) "Fratelli miei, che attraverso centomila pericoli siete arrivati a questa "piccola" ultima soglia (le famose colonne d'Ercole) presso l'Occidente; non negate ai nostri sensi quello che rimane da vedere, dietro al sole (dietro all'orizzonte), nel mondo disabitato; considerate la vostra origine: non siete nati per vivere come bruti (come animali), ma per praticare la virtù e apprendere la conoscenza.

I rolled my eyes at him and pulled the sweatshirt over my head, adjusting the deep sweetheart neckline of my dress. I'd secretly and specifically purchased the gorgeous cherry-red vintage cocktail dress for this party. I had found a pair of black cat-eye glasses at a retro clothing store near Pike Place Market to go with the dress, and the combination made me feel confident and sophisticated. "Don't look for a minute," I instructed, shimmying out of my jeans and smoothing the hemline down. The dress nipped in at the waist and flared out in a high hemline that showed off my legs. "Okay, I'm good." Rory gave me a sideways glance and did a double take. "Wow." He pulled up to a stop sign and turned, taking me in head to toe. "You look...wow." He shook his head, seemingly at a loss for words. I felt a flush of triumph. I'd never seen him look at me like that, admiration mixed with astonishment. He seemed genuinely stunned. I slicked on some red lipstick and examined my reflection in the tiny square of Rory's passenger mirror, aware of his eyes on me. I looked glamorous, surprisingly sexy. Like a movie starlet from the 1950s, a bombshell ingenue. I sat back, feeling almost giddy with triumph. I'd worn the dress for only one person. And he had finally noticed me.

PUBLISHERS WEEKLY REVIEW Collagist Fabe adds flair to Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice with 39 original illustrations that accompany the unabridged text. Fabe’s collages overlay bright, watercolor-washed scenes with retro cut-paper figures and objects sampled from fashion magazines from the 1930s to the ’50s. Accompanying each tableau is a quote from the Pride and Prejudice passage that inspired it. Like Austen’s book, Fabe’s work explores arcane customs of beauty and courtship, pageantry and social artifice: in one collage, a housewife holds a tray of drinks while a man sits happily with a sandwich in hand in the distance. While tinged with irony and more than a dash of social commentary, the collages nevertheless have a spirit of glee and evidence deep reverence for the novel. As Fabe describes in a preface, Austen “was a little bit mean—the way real people are mean—so there are both heroes and nincompoops. Family is both beloved and annoying. That is Austen’s genius, her ability to describe people in all their frailty and humor.” This is a sweet and visually appealing homage. (BookLife) “While tinged with irony and more than a dash of social commentary, the collages nevertheless have a spirit of glee and evidence deep reverence for the novel. As Fabe describes in a preface, Austen “was a little bit mean—the way real people are mean—so there are both heroes and nincompoops.” #publishersweeklyreview #booklife #elliefabe #janeausten #prideandprejudice #cincinnatiartist

Son muchos mis compañeros de profesión (quiero decir, mis compañeros de profesión novelística) que consideran a Galdós su maestro. Pero entendámonos, porque aquí siempre es difícil entenderse y todo se presta a malentendidos porque aquí todo el mundo piensa siempre automáticamente lo peor de todo el mundo, lo peor que puede pensarse y de la forma más retorcida y negativa posible y basándose siempre en la presuposición de que el otro no sabe, o es facha, o es tonto, o es un hipócrita, o dice lo que dice para joder, o para medrar, o para hacerse el gracioso, o para pagar una deuda secreta con quién sabe quién, presuponiendo siempre que hay motivos secretos, programas escondidos, conspiraciones, quién sabe qué, entendámonos, todos admiramos a Galdós, y yo también, y yo también considero que es un genio, y conozco, CONOZCO sus méritos, cojones, soy licenciado en filología hispánica y he leído a Galdós, mucho, mucho, no todo pero sí mucho, he tenido delante de mí a Domingo Ynduráin diciéndonos, cuando alguien le preguntó qué novelas de Galdós debíamos leer, diciéndonos: “¿cuántas novelas cree que podrá leer?”, añadiendo a continuación que, como es lógico, debíamos leerlas TODAS (yo no he leído todas), sí, soy bien consciente de la enorme importancia de Galdós, de su genio, de su habilidad como novelista (aunque eso de que es “mejor” que Dickens siempre me ha parecido una majadería) y, más aún, de lo MODERNO de su lenguaje y también, cielos, de su IMPORTANCIA como creador del moderno cursus de la novela en español y creador de la nada del estilo de los diálogos, innovaciones todavía hoy asombrosas. Y dicho esto: ¿cómo, cómo, cómo es posible considerar a Galdós el maestro, el epítome, el modelo? Galdós, del que he dicho ya suficientes maravillas, tiene sin embargo dos graves inconvenientes. El primero es quemurió en 1920. El segundo, que nació en 1843. Mil Ochocientos Cuarenta y Tres. ¡Claro!, me dice el listillo (que abunda), ¡y Cervantes nació en 1547! ¡Si nos ponemos así! Galdós no, por favor. Galdós no. Galdós no puede ser el modelo literario de nadie a no ser que uno sea muy muy muy muy muy muy muy muy muy viejo y no haya visto, oído ni leído nada interesante en todos los terrenos del arte y de las letras desde que nació. A no ser que todos los libros, películas, obras musicales, obras de teatro, espectáculos, muestras de todas las artes en todos los estilos, formatos, medios y todos los acontecimientos del mundo de la cultura, de la creación artística, de la especulación científica y filosófica con las que ha entrado en contacto a lo largo de toda su existencia, una existencia (he de añadir) llena de estímulos, de innovaciones, de medios nuevos, imágenes nuevas, lenguajes nuevos, sueños nuevos, pesadillas nuevas, descubrimientos, inventos, avances, retrocesos, avances, saltos cuánticos, cambios de paradigma, en combinaciones inesperadas y a menudo fascinantes de retro hiper post trans poli plus meta archi, si todo eso TODO eso no ha significado nada para esa persona, si todo lo que ha vivido en toda su existencia desde el momento de su nacimiento ha significado lo mismo que 0 + 0 = 0, sólo en ese caso Galdós puede ser su modelo en el año 2013 del siglo XXI. Galdós no, hombre, no. No jodas, tío. Galdós.

they felt like they were informed. It was a fine line--too much information led to more interrogation and too little information leads to major snooping. Thrace believed that I had developed the rare ability to express something while revealing nothing. However, I couldn’t shake the feeling that a sorcerer with laughing hazel eyes might have the ability to see beyond all my fine lines. I smiled at that whimsical thought as I finished my pot roast and parental interrogation.   Chapter 2: Mortal Combat   I woke up groggy because I set my alarm for a half hour earlier than usual to get ready to work out. I don’t know why I did that. Ok. I might know why I did that, but 6:00am was too early for rational thought. I kept my outfit simple with black yoga pants and a retro Offspring tee. It was much more difficult to get my thick auburn hair to calm down after a night of restless sleep. Luckily, I didn’t get any zits overnight which would have been just my luck. After some leave-in conditioner and some shine spray, I hoped my hair no longer looked like a bird’s nest. I headed downstairs just in time to see my dad coming from the kitchen with his coffee, my Mt. Dew, and Zone bar. Hello, my name is Calliope, and I am an addict. My drug is caffeine. I like my caffeine cold usually in the fountain pop variety—Mt. Dew in the morning and Diet Dr. Pepper in the afternoon. I like the ice and carbonation, but in the morning on the way to work out, I’ll take what I can get. I thanked my dad for my version of breakfast as we walked to the car. He only grunted his reply. We slid into the white Taurus and headed to the YMCA. I actually started to get nervous, as we got closer. We were at the Y before I was mentally prepared. I sighed and lumbered out of the car. As we walked in and headed toward opposite locker rooms, dad announced, “Meet you back here in an hour, Calli.

We've been here three days already, and I've yet to cook a single meal. The night we arrived, my dad ordered Chinese takeout from the old Cantonese restaurant around the corner, where they still serve the best egg foo yung, light and fluffy and swimming in rich, brown gravy. Then there had been Mineo's pizza and corned beef sandwiches from the kosher deli on Murray, all my childhood favorites. But last night I'd fallen asleep reading Arthur Schwartz's Naples at Table and had dreamed of pizza rustica, so when I awoke early on Saturday morning with a powerful craving for Italian peasant food, I decided to go shopping. Besides, I don't ever really feel at home anywhere until I've cooked a meal. The Strip is down by the Allegheny River, a five- or six-block stretch filled with produce markets, old-fashioned butcher shops, fishmongers, cheese shops, flower stalls, and a shop that sells coffee that's been roasted on the premises. It used to be, and perhaps still is, where chefs pick up their produce and order cheeses, meats, and fish. The side streets and alleys are littered with moldering vegetables, fruits, and discarded lettuce leaves, and the smell in places is vaguely unpleasant. There are lots of beautiful, old warehouse buildings, brick with lovely arched windows, some of which are now, to my surprise, being converted into trendy loft apartments. If you're a restaurateur you get here early, four or five in the morning. Around seven or eight o'clock, home cooks, tourists, and various passers-through begin to clog the Strip, aggressively vying for the precious few available parking spaces, not to mention tables at Pamela's, a retro diner that serves the best hotcakes in Pittsburgh. On weekends, street vendors crowd the sidewalks, selling beaded necklaces, used CDs, bandanas in exotic colors, cheap, plastic running shoes, and Steelers paraphernalia by the ton. It's a loud, jostling, carnivalesque experience and one of the best things about Pittsburgh. There's even a bakery called Bruno's that sells only biscotti- at least fifteen different varieties daily. Bruno used to be an accountant until he retired from Mellon Bank at the age of sixty-five to bake biscotti full-time. There's a little hand-scrawled sign in the front of window that says, GET IN HERE! You can't pass it without smiling. It's a little after eight when Chloe and I finish up at the Pennsylvania Macaroni Company where, in addition to the prosciutto, soppressata, both hot and sweet sausages, fresh ricotta, mozzarella, and imported Parmigiano Reggiano, all essential ingredients for pizza rustica, I've also picked up a couple of cans of San Marzano tomatoes, which I happily note are thirty-nine cents cheaper here than in New York.

Throughout the longest period of human history—one calls it the prehistoric period—the value or non-value of an action was inferred from its CONSEQUENCES; the action in itself was not taken into consideration, any more than its origin; but pretty much as in China at present, where the distinction or disgrace of a child redounds to its parents, the retro-operating power of success or failure was what induced men to think well or ill of an action. Let us call this period the PRE-MORAL period of mankind; the imperative, "Know thyself!" was then still unknown.—In the last ten thousand years, on the other hand, on certain large portions of the earth, one has gradually got so far, that one no longer lets the consequences of an action, but its origin, decide with regard to its worth: a great achievement as a whole, an important refinement of vision and of criterion, the unconscious effect of the supremacy of aristocratic values and of the belief in "origin," the mark of a period which may be designated in the narrower sense as the MORAL one: the first attempt at self-knowledge is thereby made. Instead of the consequences, the origin—what an inversion of perspective! And assuredly an inversion effected only after long struggle and wavering! To be sure, an ominous new superstition, a peculiar narrowness of interpretation, attained supremacy precisely thereby: the origin of an action was interpreted in the most definite sense possible, as origin out of an INTENTION; people were agreed in the belief that the value of an action lay in the value of its intention. The intention as the sole origin and antecedent history of an action: under the influence of this prejudice moral praise and blame have been bestowed, and men have judged and even philosophized almost up to the present day.—Is it not possible, however, that the necessity may now have arisen of again making up our minds with regard to the reversing and fundamental shifting of values, owing to a new self-consciousness and acuteness in man—is it not possible that we may be standing on the threshold of a period which to begin with, would be distinguished negatively as ULTRA-MORAL: nowadays when, at least among us immoralists, the suspicion arises that the decisive value of an action lies precisely in that which is NOT INTENTIONAL, and that all its intentionalness, all that is seen, sensible, or "sensed" in it, belongs to its surface or skin—which, like every skin, betrays something, but CONCEALS still more? In short, we believe that the intention is only a sign or symptom, which first requires an explanation—a sign, moreover, which has too many interpretations, and consequently hardly any meaning in itself alone: that morality, in the sense in which it has been understood hitherto, as intention-morality, has been a prejudice, perhaps a prematureness or preliminariness, probably something of the same rank as astrology and alchemy, but in any case something which must be surmounted. The surmounting of morality, in a certain sense even the self-mounting of morality—let that be the name for the long-secret labour which has been reserved for the most refined, the most upright, and also the most wicked consciences of today, as the living touchstones of the soul.

How will that infrastructure, that secret of secrets this side of our theses and our theory, be able in turn to rest upon the acts of absolute consciousness? Does the descent into the realm of our 'archeology' leave our analytical tools intact? Does it make no changes at all in our conception of noesis, noema, and intentiomality--in our ontology? After we have made this descent, are we still entitled to seek in an analytics of acts what upholds our own and the world's life without appeal? We know that Husserl never made himself too clear about these questions. A few words are there like indicators pointing to the problem--signaling unthought-of elements to think about. To begin with, the element of a 'pre-theoretical constitution,' which is charged with accounting for 'pre-givens,' those kernels of meaning about which man and the world gravitate. We may with equal truth say of these pre-givens (as Husserl says of the body) either that they are always 'already constituted' for us or that they are 'never completely constituted'—in short, that consciousness is always behind or ahead of them, never contemporaneous. Husserl was undoubtedly thinking of these singular beings when in another connection he evoked a constitution which would not proceed by grasping a content as an exemplification of a meaning or an essence (Auffassungsinhalt-Auffassung als . . .) , an operating or latent intentionality like that which animates time, more ancient than the intentionality of human acts. There must be beings for us which are not yet kept in being by the centrifugal activity of consciousness: significations it does not spontaneously confer upon contents, and contents which participate obliquely in a meaning in the sense that they indicate a meaning which remains a distant meaning and which is not yet legible in them as the monogram or stamp of thetic consciousness. In such cases we do still have a grouping of intentional threads around certain knots which govern them, but the series of retro-references (Rückdeutungen) which lead us ever deeper could not possibly reach completion in the intellectual possession of a noema. There is an ordered sequence of steps, but it is without end as it is without beginning.

That then morphed into objet d'art and items with a retro theme

retro vampire shows

Ma se fosse anche un altro il significato della triplice elle? Si provi ad estendere al primo canto dell'Inferno la chiave cifrata dell'ultimo del Purgatorio, canto ad esso innegabilmente correlato, come già vedeva Pietro Alighieri, sia sul piano contenutistico che su quello strutturale: ed ecco allora che le iniziali delle tre bestie luciferine, Lonza, Leone, Lupa, potrebbero anche suggerire un triplice cinquanta, ovvero, sommandole, un diabolico centocinquanta, incalzato a sua volta da un cinque, che è l'iniziale del Veltro, il quarto ed ultimo animale-simbolo del primo canto. Insomma, questa misteriosa caccia crittografata porterebbe a un risultato interessante, un curioso CLV ottenuto dalla somma delle iniziali delle quattro fiere (L+L+L+V). Tradotta la cifra nella numerazione posizionale, il 155 (uno-cinque-cinque) che si ottiene non è altro che un anagramma numerico, sia pure questa volta in cifre arabe, del cinquecento diece e cinque, il 515 (cinque-uno-cinque) della nuova numerazione. Sarà un caso, una coincidenza fortuita, per quanto bizzarra?

a tutte mie virtù fu posto un freno subitamente, sì ch'io caddi in terra, per una luce che nel cuor percosse: e se 'l libro [della memoria] non erra, lo spirito maggior tremò sì forte, che parve ben che morte per lui in questo mondo giunta fosse.

Vorrei tentare una lettura di questo tipo del Veltro e del DVX, e avvalermi, su questa strada, di un singolare indizio, che mi si è rivelato per caso alla rilettura di un bel libro di Guglielmo Gorni sul primo canto dell'Inferno, ove si constatava tra l'altro il fatto che i nomi delle tre fiere che vi compaiono (Lonza, Leone, Lupa) iniziano tutti e tre per elle, e lo si interpretava con l'evocazione della natura trina di Lucifero, parodia infera della Trinità celeste, nonché con la supposizione che le tre bestie siano in realtà una sola, mutevole come Proteo l'informe, unica manifestazione luciferina in tre successive metamorfosi

Dov'era Amore (o l'Es, parafrasando Freud), là sarà l'io (o l'anima razionale, o il libero arbitrio); è esattamente su questo punto che Dante prende le distanze dalle gru guinizzelliane e dalle parole di Francesca, e s'innalza al proprio paradiso in cui ragione e talento, disio e velle sincronizzano i propri moti come ingranaggi di un ordigno celeste, affidandosi al solo Amore con la maiuscola, alla sola ipostasi, che d'altra parte non è più un'ipostasi perché gode di esistenza reale: l'energia cosmica, la potenza divina che move il sole e l'altre stelle.

10. l'Amor che move il sole e l'altre stelle (Paradiso XXXIII 146) L'ultimo verso della Divina Commedia è famosissimo. L'amore, veniamo a sapere, è l'energia cosmica che muove stelle e pianeti e si sprigiona direttamente dal Motore Immobile. È per mettersi in perfetta sintonia con esso che Dante ha fatto il viaggio. Ora che lo ha condotto a termine, i suoi desideri hanno imparato finalmente ad armonizzarsi con quelli di Dio.

In questo suo libro giovanile Dante sembrerebbe ancora illudersi della possibilità di un sodalizio che ha forse perso la sua necessità vitale una volta terminata, per entrambi, la stagione dell'amore vissuto come strumento di conoscenza di sé (la stagione, insomma, di monna Vanna e monna Bice). Per farlo, però, propone all'amico la sua nuova visione dell'amore salvifico, di un amore che va oltre la morte dell'amata, visione da cui Guido, specie dopo Donna me prega, è assai distante.

The fact is that we lack the terms to define [the Null Rhythm], and there are too many hypothetical notions upon which our assumptions are stacked that it would be silly for us to explore it. All the same, there are layers of absence between waves of static, perforations in the surface of the latent aural wall that descend to pits of ecstatic dread, eschewing the crystallized intelligence and industry of all manifestation with its own form of anti-intelligent, retro-manifestation–not the undoing upon ‘the done’ so much as the unbeing upon the ‘will have been’ (which can be stretched to include both the ‘have been’ as well as the invariable ‘to be’). The Anti-Rhythm rises from the perforations, from those pits, only to remind itself of the sheer inadequacies and of the abomination of existence, which is not to say that it confronts or beckons to all or any who exist. Rather, like a listless predator who has lost the thrill of pursuit, it observes without interest, without appetite even, this objective reality that has prevailed only in meeting the standards of its bitter contempt, for all braided within its fabric languishes in mere folly, and all therefore remains too intertwined with the scraps and muck and detritus and moreover with the flaws in this tapestry of being to intuit its desultory artifice. There is no unbeing of the ‘will have been’ aligned with a destined course. The destined destination is simply a byproduct of aim-befuddled movement. [Excerpt from "Why Yes Always But Also Why Always Yes Never" by Ashim Shanker]

She’s stunning in a very classic, wholesome way. I have to admit, as unconventional as her clothing choices may be, they also make her alluring. She’s a mass of contradictions. Her entire look screams sweet and retro, but she’s a real take-no-prisoners spitfire. And I have to admit I kind of like how easy it is to get under her skin. It’s addicting, really.

Former pastry chef Sam Mason opened Oddfellows in Williamsburg with two business partners in 2013 and has since developed upwards of two hundred ice cream flavors. Many aren't for the faint of heart: chorizo caramel swirl, prosciutto mellon, and butter, to name a few. Good thing there are saner options in the mix like peanut butter & jelly, s'mores, and English toffee. A retro scoop shop off Bowery, Morgenstern's Finest Ice Cream has been bringing fanciful flavors to mature palettes since opening in 2014. Creator Nicholas Morgenstern, who hails from the restaurant world, makes small batches of elevated offerings such as strawberry pistachio pesto, lemon espresso, and Vietnamese coffee. Ice & Vice hails from the Brooklyn Night Bazaar in Greenpoint, and owners Paul Kim and Ken Lo brought it to the Lower East Side in 2015. Another shop devoted to quality small batches, along with weird and wacky flavors, you'll find innovations like Farmer Boy, black currant ice cream with goat milk and buckwheat streusel, and Movie Night, buttered popcorn-flavored ice cream with toasted raisins and chocolate chips.

Di quei dieci comandamenti – volontà di tregua e pace perpetua – io non ne ho rispettato nessuno, ho avuto mesi e anni per mettermi in pari, recuperare gli errori commessi, ma ho procrastinato gli eventi, ogni giorno poteva essere quello dopo, ogni tramonto lo avremmo potuto guardare la sera seguente, ogni perdono poteva restare implicito, nessuno avrebbe prosciugato il lago o avrebbe sradicato il molo, e il coniglio era morto da tempo e tale sarebbe rimasto: morto e sepolto nel giardino sul retro, tra le lattughe e qualche melanzana. [...]non le ho narrato della mia scarsa autostima, la coriacea voglia di offendere e affondare, come se ognuno fosse un pesce e io la mano stretta intorno al suo corpo liscio dentro la grande fontana che è una vita qualunque. Lei ha sempre custodito, nella sua memoria emotiva, la me fantastica e valorosa, la me affabile e sorridente, la me che è vittima e non fa pezzi dei corpi altrui, quella che canta a gola aperta in macchina e legge i libri al fresco dell’ombra, una me fugace, durata il tempo di una stagione, una immagine evanescente, un viso sott’acqua durante una gara di apnee.

In elite athletic circles the word is spreading as in-the-know Americans are purchasing ancient Russian fitness equipment, resurrecting old exercise philosophies and obtaining significant gains in cardio conditioning, muscle tone and strength as a result. Call it the Slavic Retro Fitness Craze: kettlebells are rustic and raw and are lifted and swung and tossed in specified patterns to produce specific muscular and cardiovascular results. The apparatus has a system, a philosophy of usage, first formulated in Czarist Russia.

Mi piaceva moltissimo il posto dove mi trovavo in quel momento e la sensazione era molto precisa e intensa: stavo lì, nella cucina di mia nonna, a bere il caffè appena fatto, in una tazza vera e non in un bicchiere di carta col coperchietto, nella sua cucina ordinata e perfetta, con la porta sul retro aperta giorno e notte, il pavimento di linoleum era liscio come cuoio dopo tanti anni di pulizie, e davanti a me, con un vestito comprato probabilmente quarant'anni fa e messo migliaia di volte, c'era mia nonna che mi ascoltava, che sembrava accettarmi come mi accettava solo lei, e fuori, tutt'intorno a noi, un sereno sabato estivo e un mondo non ancora completamente sopraffatto dalla stupidità, dall'intolleranza e dall'odio.