№ 372. Saturday Fun Machine: Your Name

By the time these two (and you) have figured out what’s happening, and why, Mr. Shinkai has set another change in motion, and “Your Name” has shifted from a comedy of confusion into a deeply moving meditation on nation, history, catastrophe and memory.

 

№ 371. Natural History Museum Through Square Lenses

№ 370. Would or Wouldn't You

№ 369. A Dictator is an Artist

Guilt is petite bourgeois crap. An artist creates his own moral universe. Ergo, fuck guilt! Fuck guilt and all its moral trappings. Be your own kind of dictator. Build your own ethical constructs. Be free from the fetters woven by those who came before you. Consolidate your own moral realm. You gotta do what you gotta do.

Does this mean President Duterte is an artist?! That makes Trump a Picasso.

№ 368. Saturday Fun Machine

I started downloading gems again since last Saturday. For a time, Pirate Bay was down and, also, life got a little busy and under the weather.

I wonder how the Game of Thrones would turn out if it were translated into a Wes Anderson stop motion film! For now, Isle of Dogs is enough. More than enough, really. 

№ 367. Synesthesia

Today, Grimaud considers some of her early playing too slow and too attentive to detail at the expense of “the big arc,” but at the time she felt febrile with ideas that she had to share. Though she believes that Romantic composers like Brahms and Chopin hold special wisdom, she is not wedded to that style. “If you talk to me, you can call a lot of things Romantic,” she says. “You can call Bach’s Sixth Partita as Romantic as any Wagner opera. Romanticism is, for me, much more than a period in culture.”

№ 366. I Told You So

If I Could Tell You
WH Auden


Time will say nothing but I told you so
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

№ 365. Travels and Travails

To sit outside a Paris cafe at breakfast is to observe the city as it wipes the sleep from its eyes: the soft clink of a cup and saucer, the turning of newspaper pages, the passer-by with a cigarette who asks for a light — and me, at my little round table, nibbling a speculoos, sipping my café crème.