Most go to prison not on account of their irreducible uniqueness as people but because they are part of a marginalized sector of the population who never had a chance, who were slated for it early on.
Rachel KushnerRead
Making art was really about the problem of the soul, of losing it. It was a technique for inhabiting the world. For not dissolving into it.
Interpretation
Art serves as a way to engage with and understand the complexities of existence without losing ourselves in the chaos of life.
In this quote, Rachel Kushner emphasizes that the act of creating art is a profound exploration of the human soul and the struggle to maintain one's identity in an overwhelming world. Art is portrayed not merely as a creative outlet, but as a necessary tool for connecting with reality while safeguarding against the risk of losing oneself amidst life's challenges.
In practice
A speaker at an art exhibition discussing the role of art in personal expression.
Most go to prison not on account of their irreducible uniqueness as people but because they are part of a marginalized sector of the population who never had a chance, who were slated for it early on.
I am just getting into Zora Neale Hurston, who is possibly a much better writer than the critics and rivals who tried to erase her from history, resulting in a life in which she worked as a maid and died in a welfare nursing home. She's clever. She does something modern to the sentence.
Poetry is adolescence fermented, and thus preserved.
Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright. Round yon Virgin Mother and Child. Holy Infant so tender and mild. Sleep in heavenly peace. Sleep in heavenly peace.
What are our conductors giving us year after year? Only fresh corpses. Over these beautifully embalmed sonatas, toccatas, symphonies and operas the public dance the jitterbug. Night and day without let the radio drowns us in a hog-wash of the most nauseating, sentimental ditties. From the churches comes the melancholy dirge of the dead Christ, a music which is no more sacred than a rotten turnip.
A man paints with his brains and not with his hands.
I have gathered a posy of other menΒs flowers and only the thread that bonds them is my own.
Rock is my child and my grandfather.
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