June 2012
28 posts
“Some may blackly (angrily) accuse me of trying to blacken (defame) the English language, to give it a black eye (a mark of shame) by writing such black words (hostile). They may denigrate (to cast aspersions) me by accusing me of being blackhearted (malevolent), of having a black outlook (pessimistic) on life, of being a blackguard (scoundrel)- which would certainly be a black mark (detrimental fact) against me. Some may black brow (scowl at) at me and hope that a black cat crosses in front of me because of this black deed. I may become a black sheep, who will be blackballed (ostracized) by being placed on a blacklist in an attempt to blackmail or blackjack (compel by threat) me will have a Chinaman’s chance of success, for I am not a yellow-bellied Indian-giver of words, who will whitewash (cover up or gloss over) a black lie (harmful, inexcusable). I challenge the purity and innocence (white) of the English language. I don’t see things in black and white (entirely bad or entirely good) terms, for I am a white man (marked by upright firmness) if there ever was one. However, it would be a black day when I would not “call a spade a spade,” even though some will suggest that a white man calling the English language racist is like the pot calling the kettle black. While many may be niggardly (grudging, scanty) in their support, others will be honest and decent- and to them I say, that’s very white of you (honest, decent).”
—Robert B. Moore, “Racist Stereotyping in the English Language” (via supporterleschenilles)
“Do I contradict myself?
Very well, then I
contradict myself,
I am large, I contain multitudes.” —Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself”, section 51 (via falsepalindrome)
Very well, then I
contradict myself,
I am large, I contain multitudes.” —Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself”, section 51 (via falsepalindrome)
“No matter how tall the grass got, I couldn’t be bothered. I sprawled on my back, gazing up at the sky, watching the billowy clouds drift by. Consigning my fate to the clouds. Giving myself up to the pungent aroma of the grass, the murmur of the wind. And after a time I couldn’t have cared less about the difference between what I knew and what I didn’t know.”
—Sumire, Sputnik Sweetheart, Haruki Murakami (via nubivagantmusings)
