the purpose of life is not happiness, but rather heroic accomplishment. Every soul encompasses potential heroism, I thought. But every soul flickers for a few adolescent years with heroic visions, before resigning itself to mediocre values, before submitting to the lives of others, shrivelling & finally perishing. Why should I not be a soul, which no matter what the sacrifice required, attained heroism? Who could know? Perhaps I would be victorious in my pursuit of heroism. But then the victory itself would no longer have any meaning, but only the tireless striving toward it.
eliade, gaudeamus, works & days, p60
Nuvvles aren't art? the stylist who wrote this actually agrees but yeah
Ive always liked Weegee, infamous press photographer from the 30'40's
Always first on the scene, an ambulance chaser before his time, his prolific output gives a wonderful glimpse into street life in 1930's New York.