CLASSIC AUTHORS SLAMMING OTHER CLASSIC (and not so classic) AUTHORS. IT IS, WELL, CLASSIC.

Recommeded-booklist-750x325

30. Gustave Flaubert on George Sand

“A great cow full of ink.”

29. Robert Louis Stevenson on Walt Whitman

“…like a large shaggy dog just unchained scouring the beaches of the world and baying at the moon.”

28. Friedrich Nietzsche on Dante Alighieri

“A hyena that wrote poetry on tombs.”

27. Harold Bloom on J.K. Rowling (2000)

“How to read ‘Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone’? Why, very quickly, to begin with, and perhaps also to make an end. Why read it? Presumably, if you cannot be persuaded to read anything better, Rowling will have to do.”

26. Vladimir Nabokov on Fyodor Dostoevsky

“Dostoevky’s lack of taste, his monotonous dealings with persons suffering with pre-Freudian complexes, the way he has of wallowing in the tragic misadventures of human dignity — all this is difficult to admire.”

25. Gertrude Stein on Ezra Pound

“A village explainer. Excellent if you were a village, but if you were not, not.”

24. Virginia Woolf on Aldous Huxley

“All raw, uncooked, protesting.”

23. H. G. Wells on George Bernard Shaw

“An idiot child screaming in a hospital.”

22. Joseph Conrad on D.H. Lawrence

“Filth. Nothing but obscenities.”

21. Lord Byron on John Keats (1820)

“Here are Johnny Keats’ piss-a-bed poetry, and three novels by God knows whom… No more Keats, I entreat: flay him alive; if some of you don’t I must skin him myself: there is no bearing the drivelling idiotism of the Mankin.”

20. Vladimir Nabokov on Joseph Conrad

“I cannot abide Conrad’s souvenir shop style and bottled ships and shell necklaces of romanticist cliches.”

19. Dylan Thomas on Rudyard Kipling

“Mr Kipling … stands for everything in this cankered world which I would wish were otherwise.”

18. Ralph Waldo Emerson on Jane Austen

“Miss Austen’s novels . . . seem to me vulgar in tone, sterile in artistic invention, imprisoned in the wretched conventions of English society, without genius, wit, or knowledge of the world. Never was life so pinched and narrow. The one problem in the mind of the writer . . . is marriageableness.”

17. Martin Amis on Miguel Cervantes

“Reading Don Quixote can be compared to an indefinite visit from your most impossible senior relative, with all his pranks, dirty habits, unstoppable reminiscences, and terrible cronies. When the experience is over, and the old boy checks out at last (on page 846 — the prose wedged tight, with no breaks for dialogue), you will shed tears all right; not tears of relief or regret but tears of pride. You made it, despite all that ‘Don Quixote’ could do.”

16. Charles Baudelaire on Voltaire (1864)

“I grow bored in France — and the main reason is that everybody here resembles Voltaire…the king of nincompoops, the prince of the superficial, the anti-artist, the spokesman of janitresses, the Father Gigone of the editors of Siecle.”

 15. William Faulkner on Ernest Hemingway

“He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary.”

14. Ernest Hemingway on William Faulkner

“Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?”

13. Gore Vidal on Truman Capote

“He’s a full-fledged housewife from Kansas with all the prejudices.”

12. Oscar Wilde on Alexander Pope

“There are two ways of disliking poetry; one way is to dislike it, the other is to read Pope.”

11. Vladimir Nabokov on Ernest Hemingway (1972)

“As to Hemingway, I read him for the first time in the early ‘forties, something about bells, balls and bulls, and loathed it.”

 10. Henry James on Edgar Allan Poe (1876)

“An enthusiasm for Poe is the mark of a decidedly primitive stage of reflection.”

9. Truman Capote on Jack Kerouac

“That’s not writing, that’s typing.”

8. Elizabeth Bishop on J.D. Salinger

“I HATED [Catcher in the Rye]. It took me days to go through it, gingerly, a page at a time, and blushing with embarrassment for him every ridiculous sentence of the way. How can they let him do it?”

7. D.H. Lawrence on Herman Melville (1923)

“Nobody can be more clownish, more clumsy and sententiously in bad taste, than Herman Melville, even in a great book like ‘Moby Dick’….One wearies of the grand serieux. There’s something false about it. And that’s Melville. Oh dear, when the solemn ass brays! brays! brays!”

6. W. H. Auden on Robert Browning

“I don’t think Robert Browning was very good in bed. His wife probably didn’t care for him very much. He snored and had fantasies about twelve-year-old girls.”

 5. Evelyn Waugh on Marcel Proust (1948)

“I am reading Proust for the first time. Very poor stuff. I think he was mentally defective.”

4. Mark Twain on Jane Austen (1898)

“I haven’t any right to criticize books, and I don’t do it except when I hate them. I often want to criticize Jane Austen, but her books madden me so that I can’t conceal my frenzy from the reader; and therefore I have to stop every time I begin. Every time I read ‘Pride and Prejudice,’ I want to dig her up and hit her over the skull with her own shin-bone.”

3. Virginia Woolf on James Joyce

“[Ulysses is] the work of a queasy undergraduate scratching his pimples.”

2. William Faulkner on Mark Twain (1922)

“A hack writer who would not have been considered fourth rate in Europe, who tricked out a few of the old proven sure fire literary skeletons with sufficient local color to intrigue the superficial and the lazy.”

1. D.H. Lawrence on James Joyce (1928)

“My God, what a clumsy olla putrida James Joyce is! Nothing but old fags and cabbage stumps of quotations from the Bible and the rest stewed in the juice of deliberate, journalistic dirty-mindedness.”

Upstream “part one”

 

AZ 151_Box 2_Folder 10_Upstream view of minor rapids in the colorado river a short distance upstream from Bridge Canyon Damsite_ndI will do my best to help you understand

What happens in a depressed mind and what that mind demands

It starts like a breeze with a wet subtle mist

Naked you stand in the face of the breeze

closing your eyes you imagine the sea

But still a wet mist is all you feel

Then your feet feel covered, standing in a stream

The gentlest of water, the euphoric it brings

Cold to lukewarm to warm

Now to your knees the stream is a river

standing is harder the wind is stiffer

Cold to lukewarm to warm to hot

The river now a rapid I am knocked off my feet

gagging on water and swimming up stream

Hot, burning

Oh, to give up and float with the current

Oh, to drown so my heart would be calm, instead the up stream fight, that stirs it

stirs me, please make it stop

I cannot decide whether to swim up stream or give up and float

It happens so fast, someone throw me a rope

You give up or reach

Reaching the rope

at that minute you realize, there was not river, stream, or mist

Always look for and grab the rope

Not for the neck for the shore

 

The Key To Empire

7140404-3x2-700x467

So I sit

To think of it

it is insane

to think your head, it holds a brain

search the mastery of the books

an understanding of the nooks

believe in lock and secrets keys

Examine what you see in me

Have courage to ask the things that hurt

The things that only darkness skirts

Or so they say

But they are wrong

Courage in thought, reading, and study

Makes empires fall and rise in plenty

The Hunter

b150275a6606bfc097b1badd7d7773f3

She is smooth and close to you

Makes you calm in all you do

Makes you feel your dreams are true

She holds you when your pain is new

She holds you when your pain is through

Her eyes are perfect, peace, and blue

Her skin and sweat like lover’s glue

Turns your solid back to stew

Then you feel it rip through you

Buckshot tares, what did you do

A hunter always hunts, always kills, always trophies, and leaves you unable to move

Dead men can’t warn

So she will always hide, can always hide

Beware

The hunter

 

An Ode for Hemingway

As the world turned ever so slightly to the right

You ever so slightly looked over your shoulder to the left

Every piece of your body and mind screamed for you to look to the right

But, what if you had given up looking to the left or even in its existence

Some say, that if you would have simply, only looked to the right, we would have had you and your artwork to gaze upon longer

It does seem that we were cut short by the eternal sleep brought on by your own hand

Did we miss the importance of your exit, or maybe you would have cautioned us, or warned us that we were looking to the right during your final curtain call

Or could it be, that most men are never meant to look left when the world looks right

Could it be the gaze in which you attentively considered the left, that created and produced your art

And perhaps, the brilliance of a man who looks left to0 long, or at least shares it gluttonously may forever cheapen the crisp air of art in a dark world of machines. 

(Written by Augustine Douglas concerning Earnest Hemingway) 

brand_fyi_bsfc_116472_sfm_000_2997_15_20140905_001_hd_768x432-16x9I have many inspiring and favorite authors. Any writing that feels and reads like blood the flowed from the author’s veins is worth reading and considering. Everything else is shit. As my readers know, I am extremely Bi-polar. My manic episodes have lead to many sexual exploits, the spending of money I didn’t have, academic brilliance, and a a high that only heroine users could understand. My best writing and art in general has always taken place during manic episodes. My depression was equally extreme. Death many times seemed it could be the most beautiful nap in the most comfortable bed. Many great authors dealt with Bi-polar or manic-depressive disorder. In her book Touched with Fire, Kaye Refield Jamison studies the Bi-polar disorders of many writers who are read, taught, and still discussed, as a brilliant Jamison is a doctor and respected researcher. Jamison presents proof of the biological foundations of this disease and applies what is known about the illness to the lives and works of some of the world’s greatest artists including Lord Byron, Vincent Van Gogh, and Virginia Woolf. Hemingway also was diagnosed with  a form of manic-depression that eventually lead to his suicide. I have read much of Hemingway’s poetry, prose, and short stories. I have attempted to compile a list of quotes that I feel were either inspired directly or indirectly by Hemingway’s mental illness and how his illness gave him a unique take on life and people.  I could be wrong. My only qualifications to make this list are my own love for Hemingway, his writing, and my love, battle, and confusion in dealing with Bi-polar type 1. Please enjoy these 50 quotes.

50 Best quotes by Ernest Hemingway:
There is nothing to writing. All you have to do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

We’re stronger in the places that we’ve been broken.

You are so brave and quiet. I forget you are suffering.

Live the full life of the mind, exhilarated by new ideas, intoxicated by the romance of the unusual.

I drink to make other people interesting

The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them

never go on trips with anyone you do not love.

No matter what else you have in your head I’m with you and I love you

Write drunk, edit sober.

Why did they make birds so delicate and fine as those swallows when the ocean can be so cruel.

When you stop doing things for fun you might as well be dead.

All thinking men are atheists.

I had learned already never to empty the well of my writing.

Write hard and clear about what hurts.

Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.

Courage is grace under pressure.

There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superior to your former self.

I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I’m awake, you know?

Never confuse movement with action.

The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.

When people talk listen completely. Most people never listen.

The fun of talk is to explore.

An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk to spend time with his fools.

Every day above earth is a good day.

The world is a fine place and worth the fighting for and I hate very much to leave it.

Stop chasing the wrong one. The right one won’t run.

I’m so in love with you, that there isn’t anything else.

There is no friend as loyal as a book.

It is good to have an end to journey toward, but it is the journey that matters in the end.
Being against evil doesn’t make you good.

All things truly wicked start from innocence.

Sometimes following your heart means losing your mind
To let with them. Nothing hurts if you don’t let it.

There are only two places in the world you can live happy: At home and in Paris.

I don’t live at all when I’m not with you.

never mistake motion for action.

My only regret in life is that I did not drink more wine.

The first draft of anything is shit.

An intelligent man is sometimes forces to be drunk to spend time with his fools.

Only those who are prepared to go too far can possibly know how far they can go.
you can’t get away from yourself by moving from one place to another.

We ate well and cheaply and drank well and cheaply and slept well and warm together and loved each other.

Isn”t it pretty to think so?

The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.

The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them.

Every man’s life ends the same way. it’s only the details of how he lived and how he dies that distinguish one man from another.

Fear of death increases in exact proportion to increase in wealth

The most painful thing is losing yourself in the process of loving someone too much, and forgetting that you are special too.

Every day is a new day. It is better to be lucky. But I would rather be exact. Then when luck comes you are ready.

A man can be destroyed but not defeated.

Spit

tattoo

Tattoos are the heroin of pain

Be careful to consider yourself the conciliator of human art

Your harems of shows, cash, and whores make you insane

For the sane man enjoys the decoration of a temporary tapestry

While the one who is insane, spit shines to clean that which will be dirt, bones, ugly, and a malodorous corpse

Keep in mind, spitting is neither respectable nor radiant, it is instead the essence of offensive redolence

Only the artist understands the meaning of his or her art and the art of others that moves him or her, the ignorant and inattentive spectator is left to be perplexed

This is the beauty of art, difficult to understand and love

What love that is worth any amount is not difficult or hard to understand?

Art is that which separates sanity and those who are sane

Art is like a woman who creates through child-bearing, yet does not see the fruit of her womb without pain

What is more beautiful than an innocent newborn child?

What is more beautiful than what a child does to create his or her tapestry for their existence on this planet?

Death

maxresdefault

Oh death, in you, I bid farewell to which I held and fought

Oh death, in you, I bid farewell to a body that covered me like moss

Oh death, in you, I bid farewell to the river of respiratory flow and loss

Oh death, in you, I die a higher death, my person leaves, no more drive, no more heavy cross

My capacity to love seems lost

An awareness of the calm and shock

I feel the fear of knowing not

 

Oh death, in you, I find a lover, with a necessary kiss

Selah

 

It is close

There is no light just warmth with a fading trickle of pain

The dust and dirt soon make their claim

They ask me to stay but something is pulling me

The cries of family

Then an angel who sings

 

A next second comes with its meaning confused, calm, yet screaming

Burning, aching, bringing

Losing

Not losing

someone is bringing

Bringing something

Clinging

Then letting go

 

Singing

No more stinging

Someone bringing

Oh death, how beautiful, when hatching from the rotten shell

An existence in heaven with the reality of hell

My new eyes struggle first to see

To see the face of He

Is he bringing something to me?

I am in another existence ruled by the one who ruled the incubator

The shell is gone and he is the stimulator

I react with a stretching out of wings

Like a yawn I stretch but do not bleed

I am not tired and I soar away

Looking at this world he’s made

I feel no doubt, no war, no pain

Nothing to lose, but nothing more to gain

Death is not a memory and some of those I left,  I see

How can it be

 

Oh death, as evil as you may be

I do not regret the lack of sting

For I am surprised that I believed

The fear of all that you may bring

But you, oh death, are not of greed

You, oh death, fulfilled my need

To unzip the coat that covered me

So dust could give way to reality

To see the one who created me

On wings I fly just like a dream

And now I see the someone clearly

What he brought and bought so dearly

What he brought for me, what he bought for me

An eternity in the air

Awake

1280px-van_gogh_-_starry_night_-_google_art_project

I have discovered a blaze of glory in the curse of madness

I have embraced clarity in the fog of delirium

I have rested in the calmness of mania

I have felt the warmth of being enraptured by the storm of derangement

I have grown to love strength in paradox instead of quiet sleep.

Paint

Friends are like rats and angels within a stationary globe looking to conquer what they have not released nor seen.

Listen, newborns, your welcome to earth will be splashed like paint on a white sheet, honor what your heart may bring, but beware of the one who frowns and sings.