Makeup by Eva Louis https://www.instagram.com/evalouis/?g=5

abeera tanveer and syed mushahid for bhaane by zn ali

My Dark Vanessa, Kate Elizabeth Russel

— Edna St. Vincent Millay, from a letter to Arthur Davison Ficke featured in Savage Beauty: The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay.

아무것도 하고 싶지 않아: Summer strike (2022).

dir. Lee Yoon-jung, Hong Moon-Pyo.

As Consciousness is Harnessed to Flesh, Susan Sontag.

Nostos: Il ritorno (Franco Piavoli, 1989)

– Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

[TEXT ID: Yours

(now I'm even losing my name—it was shorter and shorter all the time and is now: Yours) END ID]

one, i'll go on, two, as long as i can, three, i cannot help this hope, like a season, always coming back like a season. i am so mortal i have little time to think about everything, i can only run my finger over it, like scrolling names in the phone book. but i promise i'll be lovely and good, if not today, tomorrow. i'm not allowed to be a god, therefore i'll be an angel. what is everybody doing? dreaming? wearing? how many kids do they want? the rest of the country breathes as if the governement gives a damn, i am under the same sky of gaza, but i have the priviledge to grow old. we could touch blood as if it was red paint. after all i witness my own mother's drama without feeling the right dose of compassion. i go back to the dream i made where i stretched out my hand towards the face of a man but i did not reach him: i want to feel that warmth again. there is a world where love exists without me trying to remonstrate against it. a world where we are two fingers of the same hand. what a waste, it's all waste – i will not publish my novel. but my novel will be written. and you cannot say it never existed. there was a time where i thought you had to be heard and you had to be looked at in order to exist. but if there is one thing i have learned is that i can exist from the depths of darkness. the flesh will perish, the pen will outlive it.

End to Samuel Beckett’s The Unnameable

Not even a priest who proudly claims to love humanity, who lives for humanity. Do you doubt me?

“First, intrigued by the title, I read an essay entitled We Spit on Hegel. [...] Every sentence struck me, every word, and above all the bold freedom of thought. I forcefully underlined many of the sentences, I made exclamation points, vertical strokes. Spit on Hegel. Spit on the culture of men, spit on Marx, on Engels, on Lenin. And on historical materialism. And on Freud. And on psychoanalysis and penis envy. And on marriage, on family. And on Nazism, on Stalinism, on terrorism. And on war. And on the class struggle. And on the dictatorship of the proletariat. And on socialism. And on Communism. And on the trap of equality. And on all the manifestations of patriarchal culture. And on all its institutional forms. Resist the waste of female intelligence. Deculturate. Disacculturate, starting with maternity, don’t give children to anyone. Get rid of the master-slave dialectic. Rip inferiority from our brains. Restore women to themselves. Don’t create antitheses. Move on another plane in the name of one’s own difference. The university doesn’t free women but completes their repression. Against wisdom. While men devote themselves to undertakings in space, life for women on this planet has yet to begin. Woman is the other face of the earth. Woman is the Unpredictable Subject. Free oneself from subjection here, now, in this present. The author of those pages was called Carla Lonzi. How is it possible, I wondered, that a woman knows how to think like that. I worked so hard on books, but I endured them, I never actually used them, I never turned them against themselves. This is thinking. This is thinking against. I - after so much exertion - don’t know how to think.”

— Elena Ferrante, My Brilliant Friend: Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay

Lokman ver olum müzigii