'Money have pretty face for everybody, but for that man money is pretty like pretty self, he can't see nothing else.'
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But the rest of the time, the money and the title I bore suffocate me. The endless parade of eligible women my parents place in front of me make me want nothing more than to renounce myself as heir. The princesses and diplomats from off world are chosen specifically for what alliances or capital they might bring to our dynasty.
How can we be more antifragile?
Step 1: Create redundancies Instead of having a single salary, try to find a way to make money from your hobbies, at other jobs, or by starting your own business. If you have only one salary, you might be left with nothing should your employer run into trouble, leaving you in a position of fragility. On the other hand, if you have several options
There´s nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is not death but the lives people live or don´t live up until their death. They don´t honor their own lives, they piss on their lives. They shit them away. Dumb fuckers. They concentrate too much on fucking, movies, money, family, fucking. Their mindes are full of cotton. They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. Their brains are stuffed with cotton. They look ugly, they talk ugly, they walk ugly. Play them the great music of the centuries and they can´t hear it. Most people´s deaths are a sham. Thare´s nothing left to die.
The Blinds
I moved to Philadelphia for some peace and quiet after New York City. After paying a week’s rent in a roominghouse, I walked down the street to look for the nearest bar. Half a block. I walked in and sat down. It was the poor part of town and the bar was fifty years old. You could smell the urine and shit of one-half a century wafting
[To Jon and Louise Webb]
March 25, 1961
[...] What bothers me is when I read about the old Paris groups, or somebody who knew somebody in the old days. They did it then too, the names of old and now. I think Hemingway’s writing a book about it now. But in spite of it all, I can’t buy it. I can’t stand writers or editors or anybody who wants to
