Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suit on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose life... But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin' else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've got heroin?
Irvine Welsh, Trainspotting, 1993.
He was much prouder of the rather feeble little polkas and waltzes for military band that he composed than of his amazing paintings, executed in brilliant colours. He had shown us his works, if rather reluctantly - for the idea that someone might want to buy one made him comically anxious. His real dream, as his friends told me, was to sell them at a high price but at the same time to be able to keep them all, because he was as fond of money as of every single one of his own works. Parting from one always cast him into deep despair for a couple of days.
(Stefan Zweig , Le Monde d'hier. Souvenirs d'un Européen, 1944)
Dans une lettre à Louise Collet, Gustave Flaubert écrira ainsi :
« Depuis que nous nous sommes dit que nous nous aimions, tu te demandes d’où vient ma réserve à ajouter pour toujours. Pourquoi ? C’est que je devine l’avenir, moi. C’est que sans cesse, l’antithèse se dresse devant mes yeux. Je n’ai jamais vu un enfant sans penser qu’il deviendrait vieillard, ni un berceau sans songer à une tombe. La contemplation d’une femme nue me fait rêver son squelette, c’est ce qui fait que les spectacles joyeux me rendent triste et que les spectacles tristes m’affectent peu. Je pleure trop en dedans pour verser des larmes en dehors. »
In the beginning, there was Jack, and Jack had a groove,
And from this groove came the groove of all grooves,
And while one day viciously throwing down on his box, Jack boldy declared,
“Let there be house!”
and house music was born.
“I am, you see,
I am the creator, and this is my house!
And, in my house there is only house music.
But, I am not so selfish because once you enter my house it then becomes our house and our house music!”
And, you see, no one man owns house because house music is a universal language, spoken and understood by all.
You see, house is a feeling that no one can understand really unless you’re deep into the vibe of house.
House is an uncontrollable desire to jack your body.
And, as I told you before, this is our house and our house music.
And in every house, you understand, there is a keeper.
And, in this house, the keeper is Jack.
Now some of you who might wonder,
“Who is Jack, and what is it that Jack does?”
Jack is the one who gives you the power to jack your body!
Jack is the one who gives you the power to do the snake.
Jack is the one who gives you the key to the wiggly worm.
Jack is the one who learns you how to walk your body.
Jack is the one that can bring nations and nations of all Jackers together under one house.
You may be black, you may be white; you may be Jew or Gentile. It don’t make a difference in our House.
And this is fresh.
Hey yo, I smoke dust and shoot cops, sold guns to 2Pac
Smoked blunts with Biggie Smalls and sold drugs on new-lots
I was too young, couldn't get up in clubs back in the old days
We used rob and terrorize kids in front of homebase
When Funkmaster Flex was inside, rockin' the whole place
We was outside, smacking kids and snatchin' gold chains
Baggin' mad pigeons, catchin' mad digits, bad bitches
And when they husbands came around we had to blast biscuits
A bunch of bad Brooklyn kids that always had pistols
Broken dreams and broken halls, we always had issues
And mad problems worshippin' gangstas and bank-robbers
Watchin' Scarface startin' fights in Rap concerts
Until we realized how to get the real money
Steal money, kidnap money, kill money
Its funny how the money make the whole world love you
Jealous cats hate you, dime bitches want you
Little ghetto children run up on you, wanna' touch you
Got the IRS lookin' at you, wanna fuck you
Sniffin' so much blow, you don't know if you can trust you
Ecstasy react to what the cocaine and the dust do
Go against the Ill Bill and Non Phixion will crush you, bust you
Leave you with a tube and ya' throat to suck through
We truck jewels, these dust brothers fuck mothers
The thugs love us, rap for the gunslingers and drug-hustlers
Where my gangstas at?
"Is you a gangsta?"
"With gangsta rap"
Mia: Is that a fact?
Vincent: No, it's not. It's just what I heard.
Mia: Who told you this?
Mia: They talk a lot, don't they?
Vincent: They certainly do.
Mia: Well, don't be shy, Vincent... what did they say?
- Pulp fiction (1994)