It’s not just a funding platform. It’s a testing lab for a new way of living.
— Kickstarter Blog: Ten Creators, One Question
Your voice is small but don’t ever stop singing.
— Sarah Kay
Always apologize when you’ve done something wrong but don’t you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining.
— Sarah Kay
Baby,” I’ll tell her “remember your mama is a worrier but your papa is a warrior and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more.
"What are you doing?", asks my friend colloquially, her exact words being "chu doin?") Right now or with my life, I kid. Of course you jump to the existential interpretation, she jokes. Believe me, I have been asking myself that question my whole life, regardless of my consciousness of it. The…
The work I did is the work I know, and the work I do is the work I don’t know. That’s why I can’t tell you, I don’t know what I’m doing. And it’s the not knowing that makes it interesting.
— Philip Glass, on the importance of staying uncomfortable
I am constantly faced with this question: “What do you do?” and am constantly trying to construct a nice, clean answer. But what I really want to say is, “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.” (Not, really true, but you know what I mean.) I’m trying to get better at this, but I have a feeling that if you are expecting a nice, clean answer, then you are asking the wrong person.
I must study politics and war, that our sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. Our sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy, geography, natural history and naval architecture, navigation, commerce and agriculture in order to give their children a right to study painting, poetry, music, architecture, statuary, tapestry and porcelain.
— John Adams
Everyone who terrifies you is sixty-five percent water. And everyone you love is made of stardust.
— Finn Butler
…the loss of the starry skies, accelerated by worldwide population growth in cities, has created an urbanite who “forgets and no longer understands nature.” He adds, “To show him stars is to help him dream again.”
The Amsterdam-based designer says he likes to “visualize [his] fantasies” with his projects, many of which, he thinks, are shared by others.
This was the first photograph I ever bought, a print from the original NASA negative. I looked at it every day for years.
The astronauts on the moon had to contend with quarantine, not just for them, but for their stuff. Nothing could touch the surface, or be exposed to raw atmosphere without extensive decontamination.
Charles Duke brought a photo of his family with him and like everything else they carried, it needed to be isolated from the environment with plastic. It’s hard to say exactly what motivated him to photograph it lying on the surface of the moon, but it’s not that hard to say. If you looked up and saw the earth 250,000 miles away, when you looked back down, you’d want to see something close.
Among the other remarkable aspects of this photo, it made me realize that all the other NASA photos of the moon’s surface were actually color photographs. It was the moon that was monochrome, not their film.
I always try to picture Duke looking down and seeing his family there, covered in plastic, and wondering whether it made them feel closer, or further away. Of all the photos in the world that address the fragility and vulnerability of human life, this is my favorite. It’s in contrast to the hubris, genius, and accomplishment of considering that vulnerability while dressed in a spacesuit and stomping around on the motherfucking moon.
Looking back, I’ve had a remarkable ride. I’m not sure I can call it a career, because a career implies that I had some kind of career plan, and I never did. The nearest thing I had was a list I made when I was 15 of everything I wanted to do: to write an adult novel, a children’s book, a comic, a movie, record an audiobook, write an episode of Doctor Who… and so on. I didn’t have a career. I just did the next thing on the list.
— Neil Gaiman (via nikkiatschool)
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead He was my North, my South, my East and West, The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
— W.H. Auden (as seen in Quinn’s post about Aaron)