A Washington Post reporter.
might be the rawest pic I ever seen. and he got a bag of chips in his hand
THIS IS SO FUCKING METAL
With his dreads and his american flag shirt, this is everything
You are everything, fucking everything.
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He who wills believes with a tolerable degree of certainty that will and action are somehow one—he attributes the success, the carrying out of the willing, to the will itself, and thereby enjoys an increase of that sensation of power which all success brings with it…who as such also enjoys the triumph over resistances involved but who thinks it was his will itself which overcame these resistances….what happens here is what happens in every well-constructed and happy commonwealth: the ruling class identifies itself with the successes of the commonwealth.
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The desire for ‘freedom of will’ in that metaphysical superlative sense which is unfortunately still dominant in the minds of the half-educated, the desire to bear the whole and sole responsibility for one’s actions and to absolve God, world, ancestors, chance, society from responsibility for them, is nothing less than the desire to … pull oneself into existence out of the swamp of nothingness by one’s own hair.
Friedrich Nietzsche, "On the Prejudices of Philosophers," Beyond Good and Evil, aphorism twenty-one
Ain’t no Ayn Rand bullshit up in my Nietzsche, bietzsche.
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If I have so many ways of crying, it may be because, when I cry, I always address myself to someone, and because the recipient of my tears is not always the same: I adapt my ways of weeping to the kind of blackmail which, by my tears, I mean to exorcise around me. By weeping, I want to impress someone, to bring pressure to bear upon someone (‘Look what you have done to me’).
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Perhaps ‘weeping’ is too crude; perhaps we must not refer all tears to one and the same signification; perhaps within the same lover there are several subjects who engage in neighboring but different modes of ‘weeping’. Which is the ‘I’ who has ‘tears in my eyes’? Which is that other self who, on a certain day, was ‘on the verge of tears’? Who am I who pours out ‘all the tears in my body’? or who seds, upon waking, ‘a torrent of tears’?
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Why is it that generally intelligent people do not consider the ways in which “classy” is an offensive term? Surely, it is a sign of American classblindness that even when explicitly employing the language of class we must disavow the fact that we’re talking about class at all. “No, no, no. What I mean is that it was done gracefully, with manners, properly, regally even.” Yeah, no, I totally get what you mean.
How else can one write but of those things which one doesn’t know, or knows badly? It is precisely there that we imagine having something to say. We write only at the frontiers of our knowledge, at the border which separates our knowledge from our ignorance and transforms the one into the other.
Gilles Deleuze on why he did not join the French Communist Party (Parti Communiste Français).
"G as in Gauche (Left)"
Gilles Deleuze: From A to Z with Claire Parnet Semiotext(e) and MIT Press
I think this bests the mirror stage any day.
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