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Month: August 2015

Slices of Wisdom / Anne Lamott

August 26, 2015

“I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won’t have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of other people who aren’t even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better … More Slices of Wisdom / Anne Lamott

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For the love of Borges.

August 17, 2015

{image via} I first read Ficciones in a class on postmodern fiction while I was studying abroad in Florence during college. My professor was a sassy middle-aged British woman who wore heavy eyeliner and dyed her hair a thick chocolate brown. She was such a character, would host after-hours class discussions at one of the few Irish pubs … More For the love of Borges.

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Summer Diary / Albertine

August 3, 2015

I love walking around in neighborhoods I don’t live in. One of my favorites is the Upper East Side. Call it what you want, but I love wandering through those streets. I think there’s something about being so close to the park and all those museums. Makes me feel like I’m on vacation from my … More Summer Diary / Albertine

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Summer Diary / The Whitney

August 1, 2015

As I mentioned earlier this summer, this August marks my official five-year anniversary of living in New York City. To celebrate this ACHIEVEMENT (because as I’ve already mentioned before, it ain’t easy living here), I’ve been spending the last couple of months revisiting some of my favorite spots in the city, and exploring new ones. … More Summer Diary / The Whitney

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“What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose-knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight or beautiful, that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. I should like to come back, after a year or two, and find that the collection had sorted itself and refined itself and coalesced, as such deposits so mysteriously do, into a mould, transparent enough to reflect the light of our life, and yet steady, tranquil compounds with the aloofness of a work of art. The main requisite, I think, on reading my old volumes, is not to play the part of a censor, but to write as the mood comes or of anything whatever; since I was curious to find how I went for things put in haphazard, and found the significance to lie where I never saw it at the time.” -- Virginia Woolf.
August 2015
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