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Snooki is a bestselling author? Huh? What? I don't know if I should dumb down my book, shoot myself or find a publisher who'll settle for a rough draft written on a Pop-Tart and a coconut lotion handie.
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As estimated, you died. Things marched, sufficient, to that end. Just so much Zyklon and leather, patented terror, so many routine cries.
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Dig -- the mostly uncouth -- language of grace.
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... one of the things the tyrant most cunningly engineers is the gross over-simplification of language, because propaganda requires that the minds of the collective respond primitively to slogans of incitement.
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September fattens on vines. Roses flake from the wall. The smoke of harmless fires drifts to my eyes. This is plenty. This is more than enough.
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Autumn resumes the land, ruffles the woods with smoky wings, entangles them.
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Platonic England, house of solitudes, rests in its laurels and its injured stone
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Thus I grind to conclusion.
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We are difficult. Human beings are difficult. We’re difficult to ourselves, we’re difficult to each other.
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I think art has a right — not an obligation — to be difficult if it wishes. And, since people generally go on from this to talk about elitism versus democracy, I would add that genuinely difficult art is truly democratic.