If you ever think about me and you ain’t gonna do no revolutionary act, forget about me. I don’t want myself on your mind if you’re not going to work for the people. If you’re asked to make a commitment at the age of twenty, and you say I don’t want to make a commitment at the age of twenty, only because of the reason that I’m too young to die, I want to live a little longer, then you’re dead already. You have to understand that people have to pay a price for peace. If you dare to struggle, you dare to win. If you dare not to struggle then damn it, you don’t deserve to win. Let me say peace to you if you’re willing to fight for it.
Fred hampton. Taken from the book: The Assassination of Fred Hampton(Page 4)
Escribir: tratar de retener algo meticulosamente, de conseguir que algo sobreviva: arrancar unas migajas precisas al vacío que se excava continuamente, dejar en alguna parte un surco, un rastro, una marca o algunos signos.
The urge to “date a girl who reads” leaves unsaid its assumption that a prolific reader of acclaimed modernist novels (Joyce, Woolf, or Nabokov always seem to get invoked at some point) must be fascinating while they go about it. Flipping through lots of books doesn’t automatically make you clever, funny, interesting, or wise; it can also render you abstruse, tedious, uncertain and obsessive, as it sometimes does to me. What could be more anti-erotic than demoting reading from an interpretive performance to the signifier of some “literary” lifestyle—a subculture bound together not by resistance to hegemony but that panicked need, found in so much contemporary nerd culture, to preserve and cultivate it. “Date a girl who reads” picks up a million or so extra search results than “date a woman who writes” for a reason. These men want a partner to debate at without risking any fundamental challenge. “Date a girl who reads” is a cipher’s solipsism, imagining the idealized.
It reminds me of a realization that Isabel Archer arrives at in The Portrait of a Lady, after her ardent intelligence becomes one more curio for a rich man to own: “The real offence, as she ultimately perceived, was her having a mind of her own at all. Her mind was to be his—attached to his own like a small garden-plot to a deer-park. He would rake the soil gently and water the flowers; he would weed the beds and gather an occasional nosegay. It would a pretty piece of property for a proprietor already far-reaching. He didn’t wish her to be stupid. On the contrary, it was because she was clever that she had pleased him. But he expected her intelligence to operate altogether in his favour, and so far from desiring her mind to be a blank, he had flattered himself that it would be richly receptive.” The Girl Who Reads is finally just another text to be read, and possessed, and consumed.