The Lovely Thinking
The trouble with the term “magic realism,” el realismo mágico, is that when people say or hear it they are really hearing or saying only half of it, “magic,” without paying attention to the other half, “realism.” But if magic realism were just magic, it wouldn’t matter. It would be mere whimsy — writing in which, because anything can happen, nothing has effect. It’s because the magic in magic realism has deep roots in the real, because it grows out of the real and illuminates it in beautiful and unexpected ways, that it works.
Rushdie on Márquez, NYT (via mattfractionblog
‘The Lament of Eustace Scrubb’ by The Oh HellosWhen I touch the water / They tell me I could be set free

‘The Lament of Eustace Scrubb’ by The Oh Hellos
When I touch the water / They tell me I could be set free

‘Argentina (Parts I, II, III)’ by Tokyo Police Club is my new jam.
‘It’s Alright Now’ by Bombay Bicycle Club is my new jam.


Jim Morin

Prison sentences of black men are 20% longer than those of white men who commit the same crimes, and the gap is WIDENING.
Killings of black people by white people are more likely to be found legally justified than killings of white people by black people.
Stand Your Ground laws lead to increased homicides.
Stand Your Ground laws worsen racial disparities in the criminal justice system.
These laws are an embarrassment to our country. The evidence is overwhelming that Stand Your Ground laws lead to more murders and worsen systemic racial discrimination.



It’s that time of year again! Check out these incredible images of snowflakes under a microscope by Alexey Kljatov.


Virginia Woolf’s To The Lighthouse first edition cover c. 1927.

"I’m now all on the strain with desire to stop journalism and get on to To the Lighthouse. This is going to be fairly short; to have father’s character done complete in it; and mother’s; and St. Ives; and childhood; and all the usual things I try to put in—life, death, etc. But the centre is father’s character, sitting in a boat, reciting We perished, each alone, while he crushes a dying mackerel. However, I must refrain. I must write a few little stories first and let the Lighthouse simmer, adding to it between tea and dinner till it is complete for writing out.” —Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry dated 14 May 1925


In a cold but stuffy bed-sitting room littered with cigarette ends and half-empty cups of tea, a man in a moth-eaten dressing-gown sits at a rickety table, trying to find room for his typewriter among the piles of dusty papers that surround it. He cannot throw the papers away because the wastepaper basket is already overflowing, and besides, somewhere among the unanswered letters and unpaid bills it is possible that there is a cheque for two guineas which he is nearly certain he forgot to pay into the bank. There are also letters with addresses which ought to be entered in his address book. He has lost his address book, and the thought of looking for it, or indeed looking for anything, afflicts him with acute suicidal impulses.
He is a man of thirty-five, but looks fifty. He is bald, has varicose veins and wears spectacles, or would wear them if his only pair were not chronically lost. If things are normal with him he will be suffering from malnutrition, but if he has recently had a lucky streak he will be suffering from a hangover… Needless to say this person is a writer.
George Orwell (via pollymeow)