Presumed by Books

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Ernest Hemingway would have died rather than have syntax. Or semicolons. I use a whole lot of half-assed semicolons; there was one of them just now; that was a semicolon after “semicolons,” and another one after “now.”

And another thing. Ernest Hemingway would have died rather than get old. And he did. He shot himself. A short sentence. Anything rather than a long sentence, a life sentence. Death sentences are short and very, very manly. Life sentences aren’t. They go on and on, all full of syntax and qualifying clauses and confusing references and getting old. And that brings up the real proof of what a mess I have made of being a man.

Ursula K. Le Guin on being a man – the finest, sharpest thing I’ve read in ages 

(via ananthymous)

(Source: explore-blog, via bonesbuckleup)

9,613 notes

officialnatasharomanoff:

marveloki:

Hawkeye (2012) #6

 (x)

(via bonesbuckleup)

397 notes

dirtydirtychai:

febricant:

septembriseur:

Friends, have you ever asked yourselves: what would happen if I, a humble farmer, grew a pumpkin inside a metal nightmare machine shaped like a man’s head?
Fear not: central Ohio has your answer.

A FARMER squints into the distance, shading his eyes from the harsh Ohio sun. ”Life holds no meaning for me,” the farmer says to the tall, tall grass. 
HIS WIFE approaches, cool evening wind rippling her yellow sundress. “Why Bob, what’s paining you?” She places her delicate, weather-worn hand on his burly, bowing shoulder. “You just ain’t been the same since winnin’ the Most Aggressively Pumpkiny Pumpkin prize at the annual Pumpkin Worship Extravaganza. I feel like you ain’t even here sometimes.”
"Enough, Martha," THE FARMER sighs. "Where can I go from here? Ain’t the only way from the top down? ‘S the law o’gravity. How can we ever hope to reach such heights again?"
MARTHA thinks for a moment, gently running her thumb along the seam of his plaid shirt. “I wish I could help Bob, I swear I do.” She turns her cornflower-blue gaze to the distance, tears glistening, unshed. “I just haven’t your genius. My horrifying visions just can’t be turned into pumpkins, and they’re all I got, besides you.”
THE FARMER’s squint deepens. “Say Martha,” he says, turning to her, taking her small hands in his large, calloused grip. “What about the unholy terror that haunts your dreams, the sightless, staring, malformed orange baby head that floats on a sea of blood?”
"Oh Bob," Martha says, tears beginning to brim over, "will I ever be free? I know people talk-"
"No, Martha," he says, "I’ll grow your terror for you. I’ll grow it all year. I’ll- I’ll make a mold! You can sculpt it, remember how you used to-"
"Oh Bob, what then? I don’t think I-"
"And then we show them, Martha." A strange light seems to glow from within THE FARMER’s deep-set eyes. "We show them ALL."

oh my fucking god

dirtydirtychai:

febricant:

septembriseur:

Friends, have you ever asked yourselves: what would happen if I, a humble farmer, grew a pumpkin inside a metal nightmare machine shaped like a man’s head?

Fear not: central Ohio has your answer.

A FARMER squints into the distance, shading his eyes from the harsh Ohio sun. ”Life holds no meaning for me,” the farmer says to the tall, tall grass. 

HIS WIFE approaches, cool evening wind rippling her yellow sundress. “Why Bob, what’s paining you?” She places her delicate, weather-worn hand on his burly, bowing shoulder. “You just ain’t been the same since winnin’ the Most Aggressively Pumpkiny Pumpkin prize at the annual Pumpkin Worship Extravaganza. I feel like you ain’t even here sometimes.”

"Enough, Martha," THE FARMER sighs. "Where can I go from here? Ain’t the only way from the top down? ‘S the law o’gravity. How can we ever hope to reach such heights again?"

MARTHA thinks for a moment, gently running her thumb along the seam of his plaid shirt. “I wish I could help Bob, I swear I do.” She turns her cornflower-blue gaze to the distance, tears glistening, unshed. “I just haven’t your genius. My horrifying visions just can’t be turned into pumpkins, and they’re all I got, besides you.”

THE FARMER’s squint deepens. “Say Martha,” he says, turning to her, taking her small hands in his large, calloused grip. “What about the unholy terror that haunts your dreams, the sightless, staring, malformed orange baby head that floats on a sea of blood?”

"Oh Bob," Martha says, tears beginning to brim over, "will I ever be free? I know people talk-"

"No, Martha," he says, "I’ll grow your terror for you. I’ll grow it all year. I’ll- I’ll make a mold! You can sculpt it, remember how you used to-"

"Oh Bob, what then? I don’t think I-"

"And then we show them, Martha." A strange light seems to glow from within THE FARMER’s deep-set eyes. "We show them ALL."

oh my fucking god

(via murphlicious)