Here’s something I learned from a wise, old man:
Do not smile when Vonnegut writes “so it goes.” Do not giggle, do not feel charmed that its trisyllabic tragedy popped up through the story yet again like spring daisies. 25,000 people were firebombed in Dresden and all we can say is “so it goes;” a man was shot for stealing a teapot in the rubble and all we can say is “so it goes.” That’s a synonym for “who cares,” and why shouldn’t we care about human death? Because we, humans, are good at causing it, unsheathing and slashing with it. We should care that humans are the only animal capable of such unspeakable massacre, and that their unspeakable nature is no excuse to cough up a pithy phrase and forget. The nature behind “so it goes” did not make Vonnegut feel better, did not compress the 20 years it took to exhale the long literary sight that become “Slaughterhouse-Five.” Rather, I think it disturbed him, that we don’t care, as it should you. Just ask the masses who remembers the massacre at Dresden, and they’ll likely give you a synonym for “so it goes:” oh well, what a shame, one day we’ll learn.
incredibly frustrating in the way your fingers curl into mine but you never call my name.
Franz Kafka (via middecember)
curl in your bed and watch howl’s moving castle with a hot cup of tea kind of day.
Sext: I am so glad that the particles of a star that exploded billions of years ago eventually came together to form your fingers
a scandal in belgravia still gives me chills.