"I dreamt that it was night and that I was lying in bed. (My bed stood with its foot towards the window; in front of the window there was a row of old walnut trees. I know it was winter when I had the dream, and night-time.) Suddenly the window opened of its own accord, and I was terrified to see that some white wolves were sitting on the big walnut tree in front of the window. There were six or seven of them. The wolves were quite white, and looked more like foxes or sheep-dogs, for they had big tails like foxes and they had their ears pricked like dogs when they pay attention to something. In great terror, evidently of being eaten up by the wolves, I screamed and woke up. My nurse hurried to my bed, to see what had happened to me. It took quite a long while before I was convinced that it had only been a dream; I had had such a clear and life-like picture of the window opening and the wolves sitting on the tree. At last I grew quieter, felt as though I had escaped from some danger, and went to sleep again." (Freud 1918)




Breakfast is the only meal of the day that I tend to view with the same kind of
traditionalized reverence that most people associate with Lunch and Dinner. I like to eat
breakfast alone, and almost never before noon; anybody with a terminally jangled
lifestyle needs at least one psychic anchor every twenty-four hours, and mine is
breakfast. In Hong Kong, Dallas or at home — and regardless of whether or not I have
been to bed — breakfast is a personal ritual that can only be properly observed alone,
and in a spirit of genuine excess. The food factor should always be massive: four Bloody
Marys, two grapefruits, a pot of coffee, Rangoon crepes, a half-pound of either sausage,
bacon, or corned beef hash with diced chiles, a Spanish omelette or eggs Benedict, a
quart of milk, a chopped lemon for random seasoning, and something like a slice of Key
lime pie, two margaritas, and six lines of the best cocaine for dessert…. Right, and
there should also be two or three newspapers, all mail and messages, a telephone, a
notebook for planning the next twenty-four hours and at least one source of good
music…. All of which should be dealt with outside, in the warmth of a hot sun, and
preferably stone naked.

hunter s thompson

Woolf on Ulysses

Woolf’s 6 September 1922 Diary entry:

“I finished Ulysses, & think it a misfire. Genius it has I think; but of the inferior water. The book is diffuse. It is brackish. It is pretentious. It is underbred, not only in the obvious sense, but in the literary sense.”


1. fuckshow

The highest level of absolute fiasco. An event or process where NOTHING goes right.

The war in Iraq is a total fuckshow.