"The very high residual stress within the drop gives rise to unusual qualities, such as the ability to withstand a blow from a hammer on the bulbous end without breaking, while the drop will disintegrate explosively if the tail end is even slightly damaged."
"The ending I should’ve fought harder for is where Martha Dumptruck pulls out a knife, stabs Veronica, and says, “F— you, Heather.” And Veronica’s on the ground laughing, with a knife in her stomach, saying, “My name’s not Heather. My name’s not Heather.”"
THE BELIEVER: We should probably talk about American Psycho. It’s heralded as this great cult film, but that’s not the experience you had at the time, is it?
MARY HARRON: Five years after the film came out, I was shooting an episode of Six Feet Under and Susie Bright was on the set and she said she’d just seen American Psycho, and she asked me why it hadn’t gotten more attention. That was five years after it came out. It gets so much attention now that I’m bored with it, but it was only after five years that it got all this attention. There were a lot of YouTube parodies and Christian Bale became famous, which also helped.
BLVR: Many people say it would have been a much different film had it been shot by a man. You linger on the female faces, when a male director might not have. Were you conscious of that?
MH: It was a very conscious decision to play it off the faces of the women. That’s why I cast Cara Seymour, who is a great stage actress who could carry those scenes. Those scenes come through her face; most of the film focuses on him, but the perspective in those murder scenes wasn’t through Patrick Bateman but the women. That was a conscious choice.
It’s a delectable morning the sun lights up the countryside bees are gathering honey a butterfly delicately alights by a mimosa sheep are bleating in the distance bells are ringing everything is calm and peaceful
1. It’s HORRIBLE. It’s really just awful, from a user’s perspective. Load the website and look upon that utter wasteland, it’s a terrible eye chart of a mess. It’s full of ads, content that looks like ads, and ads that look like content. When you click on things, either the page as a whole or just certain parts of the page autoscrolls, which either makes you lose your place or feels like when you’re on a train and you can’t tell if your train or the one next to you is moving. Ugh, gross. The mobile app is equally disastrous, but for different reasons (unstable, crappy navigation, huge app size, etc.). Basically, Facebook is a terrible product that no one would ever choose to use if everyone wasn’t already using it.
2. It MAKES LIFE WORSE. Or at the very least, not using Facebook makes life better. Due to a combination of two factors (a. birth of child, b. nice but outdated smartphone running out of memory for apps), I’ve been on Facebook only very infrequently in the last 8 months. Listen up: life is noticeably better when you’re not on Facebook. Honest. You’re more present in the moment, you waste less time, you live more.
3. The GOOD STUFF is ELSEWHERE. It’s not like I’m quitting the internet, or social networking. It’s just that all of the good stuff, all of the content I actually want, is elsewhere. Namely, Instagram/Tumblr/RSS reader of choice/The Morning News/Metafilter. The signal to noise ratio on Facebook is tiny, so small as to make the whole enterprise and all of its creepy data collection not worth the trouble.
4. You DON’T NEED IT. Dropping off and not missing it at all is the surest sign this is true. But what are you worried about, that someone won’t be able to find you to deliver the news about your long lost brother or inheritance? Are you kidding me? Google yourself, you’re findable, we all are. Are you worried people won’t invite you to things? If you’re not on Facebook and your friends can’t be bothered to contact you by email/phone/Twitter/Gchat/etc., either you’re not friends, or your friends are being really lame. Is Facebook really that central to your life, and if so, do you want it to be?
In summary, thanks for reading and QUIT FACEBOOK, EVERYONE.
"She liked to garden. She didn’t do it often, but on those occasions when as a boy I would seek her out and find her standing out front pruning the rose bushes or sitting in the backyard planting monkey grass, she seemed at peace. Some of this was the warm relaxation brought by working outside. But as a father now myself, I suspect that some of the happiness I sensed at these moments was the incomparable pleasure of being sought and found by one’s children. I had first to search the big house, nine rooms on two floors, then yell out the back door. On hearing her distant response, I am running. I let the screen door slam and fly through magnolia shade until the bright sun along the driveway slows me and I find her sitting at the edge of her rose garden. She wears old jeans, a green smock, and pale blue gardening gloves. The pruning shears, laid aside, bend but do not flatten the stiff blades of the Saint Augustine grass. She looks up, and with the back of her sleeve she pushes her black curls from her forehead and gives me a wondrous smile. She delightedly says my name. This smile will embarrass me at other times. But now it completely drives from my head whatever inspired this search only moments before. She smiles that radiant smile, and when she asks me what brings her the pleasure of this visit, I can’t recall what I’ve come to her for. Clearly this."
"In America we like to pretend that our statues and federal holidays are proof that we are humbled by and respectful to our shared national history. But how respectful are we, and to whom are we showing respect, when a monument to a “great” American fails to mention that that man once worked ceaselessly to subjugate an entire group of other Americans? How respectful are we when we publish in our newspapers headlines calling black women liars for proffering the ridiculous opinion that the racism they’ve known since childhood is a real thing? Whose history is being respected when a white American says she pines for the days when entire restaurant waitstaffs were composed of old black men?"
"There was a smell of Time in the air tonight. He smiled and turned the fancy in his mind. There was a thought. What did time smell like? Like dust and clocks and people. And if you wondered what Time sounded like it sounded like water running in a dark cave and voices crying and dirt dropping down upon hollow box lids, and rain. And, going further, what did Time look like? Time looked like snow dropping silently into a black room or it looked like a silent film in an ancient theater, 100 billion faces falling like those New Year balloons, down and down into nothing. That was how Time smelled and looked and sounded. And tonight … tonight you could almost touch time."
Ray Bradbury, “Night Meeting”, from The Martian Chronicles (via liquidnight)