Matthew J. Robinson


  1. A man once asked me … how I managed in my books to write such natural conversation between men when they were by themselves. Was I, by any chance, a member of a large, mixed family with a lot of male friends? I replied that, on the contrary, I was an only child and had practically never seen or spoken to any men of my own age till I was about twenty-five. “Well,” said the man, “I shouldn’t have expected a woman (meaning me) to have been able to make it so convincing.” I replied that I had coped with this difficult problem by making my men talk, as far as possible, like ordinary human beings. This aspect of the matter seemed to surprise the other speaker; he said no more, but took it away to chew it over. One of these days it may quite likely occur to him that women, as well as men, when left to themselves, talk very much like human beings also.

    Dorothy L. SayersAre Women Human?: Astute and Witty Essays on the Role of Women in Society

    Book Geek Quote #445

    (via bookgeekconfessions)

    (via smashfizzle)

  2. juliavickerman:

    This aired on ABC.

    Yes. It. Did.

    (via robdelaney)

  3. Sicker than any NFL catch.

    Sicker than any NFL catch.

    (via frankiesachs)

  4. Who will count the bones
    Whoever has finished counting the stars


    What are ribs
    Beached coracles from a distant country
    that has seven words for thirst


    And metacarpals
    They shine on x-rays like far off streets at night
    that veer off into all we have touched


    What are shins
    Arrows falling for years


    Then where is the bow
    I saw it once shining
    in a little boat drifting on the river


    What is the heel
    What has been rounded by the glassblower’s breath


    What is the heel
    The calyx that holds the moon


    What are tracers
    Embers of a stolen childhood


    What are tracers
    They shimmer like the black beads of a bracelet hanging from a hand
    They return what has fallen to earth
    They shine like skinned rabbits strung from a butcher’s window in last light


    What is hair
    The only thing that will pick a lock made of rain


    What is the jawbone
    A lyre in its next life


    What is the heart
    A web that holds drops of dew


    Then where is the spider
    It has gone to the river to bring back stars


    Then what is the river
    It shines like skin where the shroud has worn through


    What is the river
    It has untied the black scarf from your mother’s hair
    & wrapped it around itself


    Who are the people on the riverbank
    Spots on the flank of a deer
    rising from its bed of stars

    Our poem of the week is Mark Wagenaar’s “Questions after a Mass Grave Is Found Outside Srebrenica.” (via themissourireview)
  5. despawndense:

theribbitking:

toastradamus:

HOW ARE KANGAROOS SO FUCKING BUFF THIS IS LEGIT SCARING ME

i thought this was photoshopped so i googled it




i feel like ive just googled the furry equivalent of those fireman pinup calendars

Do not mess with them. They will Fuck you up.

    despawndense:

    theribbitking:

    toastradamus:

    HOW ARE KANGAROOS SO FUCKING BUFF THIS IS LEGIT SCARING ME

    i thought this was photoshopped so i googled it

    image

    image

    image

    image

    i feel like ive just googled the furry equivalent of those fireman pinup calendars

    Do not mess with them. They will Fuck you up.

  6. That belt buckle though.

    That belt buckle though.

    (via despawndense)

  7. likeafieldmouse:

    Christian Hetzel

    1. So What

    2. Circumfluo

    3. Bloc

    4. Serenity

    5. White Gray

    6. Zero 01

    7. Sure Thing

    8. Surfaces No. 1

    9. Functionless

    10. In Balance

    #2 & #6 really stood out for me.

  8. Novels remind us that the hard questions matter, they always have, and that we can’t ignore them just because we’re comfortable, well-fed, sheltered, and secure. Maybe those same comforts, which give us time and leisure enough to read novels in the first place, are the very reason why we need them so badly. A great novel is always felt as a kind of gift, and here’s the strange thing: these gifts are heartbreaks we wouldn’t suffer, tears we wouldn’t shed, agonies we wouldn’t undergo, if we simply left the books alone and did something else with our time.