(Source: antronaut, via eventyere)

(Source: antronaut, via eventyere)


“I’ve written so many stories and novellas that nobody will look at, plays that I can’t get produced, screenplays that will never be made. Everything is so branded these days in the art world, it’s so hard for an outsider to get work.”

“In what way would you consider yourself an ‘outsider?’”

“I’m interested in failure, so those are the themes that I like to explore. But we live in a society that celebrates triumphalism. A society wants art that reaffirms itself. We want to read about characters that win.” 
“What was your lowest moment as an artist?”
“I worked on a screenplay for two years, and it had just been turned down by the fifth theater in a month, and I remember walking down 5th avenue in the middle of winter, tossing the pages one by one into the slush, vowing never to do it again. It was just a few blocks from here, actually.”





(via kyhuk)


David Catá

(Source: 20aliens, via limewiregod)

(Source: aimearmee)

(via eventyere)





Heart surgeon after 23-hour (successful) lung heart transplantation. His assistant is sleeping in the corner

saw this in the national geographic best 100, this was my favourite

Will never not reblog, it looks like a battlefield in some way to me.

That photo is from 1987. It was taken in Poland and that surgeon was even Minister of Health. Sadly, he is dead now (but there will be a movie about him) but his patient is still alive.

(Source: best-of-imgur, via eventyere)


“My happiest memories are from when I was growing up in South Carolina. I remember sitting in the kitchen, waiting on breakfast and listening to the coffee perkin’. My grandmother had her own garden, and my grandfather had his own grocery store, so we always had fresh vegetables and grits and bacon and eggs. That was a big deal back then in the 50’s— for a black man to own a grocery store. If someone needed credit, my grandfather would just write their name in a book. And if they couldn’t pay, he’d just forget about it. He was shorter than I was, and very quiet. But everybody respected him. He used to walk to the store every morning before dawn, with a 38’ in his hand. Every night he’d walk home with that same gun in his hand. Even the white delivery men called him Mr. Robinson. MISTER Robinson.”

(Source: nawetgdyby, via kyhuk)



(Source: , via spookyamu)