L’appel du vide

This is where Dan Fante lived while staying in New York city in 1960s. This is located on 51st street between 8th and 9th avenues in Manhattan, NY.  

“But that night when the sun went down we came to understand that real meaning of the phrase caveat emptor. The huge cross became neon, alternately pink, then green. One side of the dam thing, the pink side, spelled out the words SIN WILL FIND YOU OUT. The other side, the green side, read GET RIGHT WITH GOD. Each side flashed alternately even ten seconds.”

Fante, Dan Fante

"I didn’t know what I was doing yet I did it. I became more fixated with where I was heading. I hurled myself towards my personal god: SIMPLICITY. The tighter the smaller you got it the less chance there was of error and the lie. Genius could be the ability to say a profound thing in a simple way. Words were bullets, words were sunbeams, words cracked through the doom and damnation. I played with words. I tried to write paragraphs that read the same across as down. I was playing. Time to play is important."

- Basic Training, Charles Bukowski

blurry train
I miss summer

“I awoke in the morning with the conviction that love is an insomnia that wakes us from the sleep of life. I had been asleep before, but never again.”

—    Self, Yann Martel

“The past is a curious thing. It’s with you all the time, I suppose an hour never passes without you thinking of things that happened ten or twenty years ago, and yet most of the time it’s got no reality, it’s just a set of facts that you’ve learned, like a lot of stuff in a history book. Then some chance sight or sound or smell, especially smell, sets you going, and the past doesn’t merely come back to you, you’re actually in the past.”

—   Coming Up for Air, George Orwell

“I lived with rats and mice and wine and my blood crawled the walls in a world I couldn’t understand and still can’t. Rather than live their life, I starved; I ran inside my own mind and hid. I pulled down all the shades and stared at the ceiling. When I went out it was to a bar where I begged drinks, ran errands, was beaten in alleys by well-fed and secure men, by dull and comfortable men. Well, I won a few fights but only because I was crazy. I went for years without a women, I lived on peanut butter and stale bread and boiled potatoes. I was the food, the idiot. I wanted to write but the typer was always in hock. I gave it up and drank….”

—   South of No North, Charles Bukowski