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Arts & Entertainment "Beauty in art is often nothing but ugliness subdued." The written word, the spoken word, performance art, visual art. What is "Art?" From television advertising to opera, comic books to classic literature, vacation snapshots to the Sistine Chapel Frescoes; we are exposed to art every day. What is art to you?

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Old 20-03-2017, 08:08 AM   #7376 (permalink)
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“But my real treasure is not that, my dear friend, which awaits me beneath the sombre rocks of Monte Cristo, it is your presence...it is the rays of intelligence you have elicited from my brain, the languages you have implanted in my memory, and which have taken root there with all their philological ramifications. These different sciences that you have made so easy to me by the depth of the knowledge you possess of them, and the clearness of the principles to which you have reduced them- this is my treasure, my beloved friend, and with this you have made me rich and happy.”

― Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo
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Old 20-03-2017, 08:15 AM   #7377 (permalink)
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“I'm not proud, but I'm happy, and I think happiness makes a man even blinder than pride.”

― Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo
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Old 20-03-2017, 10:43 AM   #7378 (permalink)
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“I was like a turd that drew flies instead of like a flower that butterflies and bees desired.”

― Charles Bukowski, Ham on Rye
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Old 20-03-2017, 10:47 AM   #7379 (permalink)
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“There is a problem with writers. If what a writer wrote was published and sold many, many copies, the writer thought he was great. If what a writer wrote was published and sold a medium number of copies, the writer thought he was great. If what a writer wrote was published and sold very few copies, the writer thought he was great. If what the writer wrote never was published and he didn’t have the money to publish it himself, then he thought he was truly great. The truth, however, was that there was very little greatness. It was almost nonexistent, invisible. But you could be sure that the worst writers had the most confidence, the least self-doubt.”

― Charles Bukowski, Women
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Old 21-03-2017, 01:16 AM   #7380 (permalink)
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“I recall certain moments, let us call them icebergs in paradise, when after having had my fill of her –after fabulous, insane exertions that left me limp and azure-barred–I would gather her in my arms with, at last, a mute moan of human tenderness (her skin glistening in the neon light coming from the paved court through the slits in the blind, her soot-black lashes matted, her grave gray eyes more vacant than ever–for all the world a little patient still in the confusion of a drug after a major operation)–and the tenderness would deepen to shame and despair, and I would lull and rock my lone light Lolita in my marble arms, and moan in her warm hair, and caress her at random and mutely ask her blessing, and at the peak of this human agonized selfless tenderness (with my soul actually hanging around her naked body and ready to repent), all at once, ironically, horribly, lust would swell again–and 'oh, no,' Lolita would say with a sigh to heaven, and the next moment the tenderness and the azure–all would be shattered.”

― Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita
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Old 21-03-2017, 06:20 AM   #7381 (permalink)
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“He regarded himself as an accomplished writer — a clear sign of madness in anyone.”

― Paul Theroux
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Old 21-03-2017, 09:15 AM   #7382 (permalink)
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“I am awfully greedy; I want everything from life. I want to be a woman and to be a man, to have many friends and to have loneliness, to work much and write good books, to travel and enjoy myself, to be selfish and to be unselfish… You see, it is difficult to get all which I want. And then when I do not succeed I get mad with anger.”

― Simone de Beauvoir
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Old 21-03-2017, 02:57 PM   #7383 (permalink)
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"Sam Temple kept a lower profile. He stuck to jeans and understated T-shirts, nothing that drew attention to himself. He had spent most of his life in Perdido Beach, attending this school, and everybody knew who he was, but few people were quite sure what he was. He was a surfer who didn’t hang out with surfers. He was bright, but not a brain. He was good-looking, but not so that girls thought of him as a hottie.
The one thing most kids knew about Sam Temple was that he was School Bus Sam. He’d earned the nickname when he was in seventh grade. The class had been on the way to a field trip when the bus driver had suffered a heart attack. They’d been driving down Highway 1. Sam had pulled the man out of his seat, steered the bus onto the shoulder of the road, brought it safely to a stop, and calmly dialed 911 on the driver’s cell phone.
If he had hesitated for even a second, the bus would have plunged off a cliff and into the ocean.
His picture had been in the paper.”

― Michael Grant, Gone
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Old 21-03-2017, 06:40 PM   #7384 (permalink)
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Worth a repeat:

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“Every atom in your body came from a star that exploded. And, the atoms in your left hand probably came from a different star than your right hand. It really is the most poetic thing I know about physics: You are all stardust. You couldn’t be here if stars hadn’t exploded, because the elements - the carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, iron, all the things that matter for evolution and for life - weren’t created at the beginning of time. They were created in the nuclear furnaces of stars, and the only way for them to get into your body is if those stars were kind enough to explode. So, forget Jesus. The stars died so that you could be here today.”

― Lawrence M. Krauss
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Old 21-03-2017, 06:49 PM   #7385 (permalink)
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Friendship needs no words - it is solitude delivered from the anguish of loneliness.

- Dag Hammarskjold
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Old 21-03-2017, 06:54 PM   #7386 (permalink)
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“Grief is a most peculiar thing; we’re so helpless in the face of it. It’s like a window that will simply open of its own accord. The room grows cold, and we can do nothing but shiver. But it opens a little less each time, and a little less; and one day we wonder what has become of it.”

― Arthur Golden, Memoirs of a Geisha
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Old 22-03-2017, 11:55 AM   #7387 (permalink)
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“People do not die for us immediately, but remain bathed in a sort of aura of
life which bears no relation to true immortality but through which they
continue to occupy our thoughts in the same way as when they were alive. It
is as though they were traveling abroad.”

― Marcel Proust
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Old 22-03-2017, 07:04 PM   #7388 (permalink)
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Always dream and shoot higher than you know you can do.
Do not bother just to be better than your contemporaries or predecessors.
Try to be better than yourself.

― William Faulkner
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Old 22-03-2017, 10:18 PM   #7389 (permalink)
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Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him;
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich - yes, richer than a king,
And admirably schooled in every grace;
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

"Richard Cory" is a narrative poem written by Edwin Arlington Robinson. It was first published in 1897, as part of The Children of the Night, having been completed in July of that year; and it remains one of Robinson's most popular and anthologized poems. The poem describes a person who is wealthy, well educated, mannerly, and admired by the people in his town. Despite all this, he fatally shoots himself in the head.
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Old 23-03-2017, 12:41 AM   #7390 (permalink)
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“When your innocence is stripped from you, when your people are denigrated, when the family you came from is denounced and your tribal ways and rituals are pronounced backward, primitive, savage, you come to see yourself as less than human. That is hell on earth, that sense of unworthiness. That's what they inflicted on us.”

― Richard Wagamese, Indian Horse
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Old 23-03-2017, 12:48 AM   #7391 (permalink)
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Richard Wagamese Dead At 61 (Mar 10th/2017)

By The Canadian Press

KAMLOOPS, B.C. — Acclaimed Ojibway author and journalist Richard Wagamese, whose work reflected on the legacy of the residential school system, has died at age 61.

Family members in northwestern Ontario confirmed the writer died Friday afternoon in his home in Kamloops, B.C.

His novel "Indian Horse'' was a finalist in CBC's Canada Reads in 2013. The story, about a boy abused in the residential school system who finds his release in a love of hockey, is being adapted for a movie.

Wagamese began his writing career in 1979 as a journalist. In 1991, he became the first indigenous writer to win a National Newspaper Award for column writing.

He has also won the George Ryga Award for Social Awareness in Literature for his 2011 memoir "One Story, One Song,'' the Canadian Authors Association Award for Fiction for his novel "Dream Wheels'' in 2007 and the Alberta Writers Guild Best Novel Award for his debut novel "Keeper'n Me'' in 1994.

His niece Rhonda Fisher said his works were also greatly influenced by his own childhood experiences. She says he was removed from his family by the Children's Aid Society as part of the '60s Scoop and ended up in foster care in southern Ontario.

Fisher said members of the Wabaseemoong Independent Nations "looked up to him and we were really, really proud of him.''
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Old 23-03-2017, 12:49 AM   #7392 (permalink)
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When all the trees have been cut down, when all the animals have been hunted, when all the waters are polluted, when all the air is unsafe to breathe, only then will you discover you cannot eat money.

Cree Prophecy
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Old 23-03-2017, 12:51 AM   #7393 (permalink)
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A frog does not drink up the pond in which it lives.

- American Indian proverb
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Old 23-03-2017, 12:54 AM   #7394 (permalink)
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“We were hockey gypsies, heading down another gravel road every weekend, plowing into the heart of that magnificent northern landscape. We never gave a thought to being deprived as we travelled, to being shut out of the regular league system. We never gave a thought to being Indian. Different. We only thought of the game and the brotherhood that bound us together off the ice, in the van, on the plank floors of reservation houses, in the truck stop diners where if we'd won we had a little to splurge on a burger and soup before we hit the road again. Small joys. All of them tied together, entwined to form an experience we would not have traded for any other. We were a league of nomads, mad for the game, mad for the road, mad for ice and snow, an Arctic wind on our faces and a frozen puck on the blade of our sticks.”

― Richard Wagamese, Indian Horse
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Old 23-03-2017, 12:54 AM   #7395 (permalink)
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Only to the white man was nature a wilderness and only to him was the land 'infested' with 'wild' animals and 'savage' people. To us it was tame, Earth was bountiful and we were surrounded with the blessings of the Great Mystery.

- Black Elk, Oglala Lakota Sioux (1863-1950)
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Old 23-03-2017, 08:49 AM   #7396 (permalink)
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“I'm twenty-three years old, I'm working graveyard in the fucking mine and I been there since I was sixteen. I'll be there until it kills me or I'm too fucking old. I ain't got no out. I don't mind that. I got Emma and I got the kids and I got the Moose until I'm too damn old for that too. But someone reached down and put lightning bolts in your legs, Saul. Someone put thunder in your wrist shot and eyes in the back of your fucking head. You were made for this game. So you gotta give this a shot for all of us who're never gonna get out of Manitouwadge.”

― Richard Wagamese, Indian Horse
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Old 23-03-2017, 01:30 PM   #7397 (permalink)
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You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends,
And how, how rare and strange it is, to find
In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends,
(For indeed I do not love it ... you knew? you are not blind! How keen you are!)
To find a friend who has these qualities,
Who has, and gives
Those qualities upon which friendship lives.
How much it means that I say this to you-
Without these friendships -life, what cauchemar!

― T.S. Eliot
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Old 23-03-2017, 06:58 PM   #7398 (permalink)
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When your time comes to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with fear of death,
so that when their time comes they weep and pray for
a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way.

Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home.

- Tecumseh
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Old 24-03-2017, 10:24 AM   #7399 (permalink)
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“I have always believed, and I still believe, that whatever good or bad fortune may come our way we can always give it meaning and transform it into something of value.”

― Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha
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Old 24-03-2017, 10:46 AM   #7400 (permalink)
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“Modern man is drinking and drugging himself out of awareness, or he spends his time shopping, which is the same thing. As awareness calls for types of heroic dedication that his culture no longer provides for him, society contrives to help him forget. In the mysterious way in which life is given to us in evolution on this planet, it pushes in the direction of its own expansion. We don’t understand it simply because we don’t know the purpose of creation; we only feel life straining in ourselves and see it thrashing others about as they devour each other. Life seeks to expand in an unknown direction for unknown reasons."
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