Given Kanye’s celebrity status and our cultural habit of reducing (or elevating if you’re feeling nasty) sound bites torn from their context to snappy memes, it’s difficult to not at least be peripherally familiar with the man’s apparent delusions of grandeur.
Practically everybody in New York has half a mind to write a book — and does. – Groucho Marx
From Julio Cortázar to Virginia Woolf to Luna Miguel and Andy Warhol, these are authors and books I love.
Midnight in Paris revolves around this chance, the opportunity presented to a person to exercise free will in the only true sense of the term, to become something other than the self that they have crystallized (read: rigidified, or petrified) into. Gil has been captured, stratified, subjugated, and written over. His life has become so rigid, so habitual, predictable, and systematized that he is only really living in the technical (and organic) sense of the word.
Your chances have never been better. Notice her at an Irish pub leaning heavily against the wall, near the pay phones in the back. Notice the glimmer of what appears to be either vomit or hot wing sauce on her left thigh. Go over to her, smell cologne from other men, most likely Italian-Americans; when she doesn’t notice you encroach, plug her nostrils to test if she’s still breathing.