/lit/ - Literature

epub: http://forum.mobilism.org/viewtopiphp?t=474370&sid=dc119e3a7884e5720316d9e552f26b

mobi (plus a couple more): http://thepiratebay.se/torrent/63502/William_Gibson_%289_books%29

and next time don't be so nice. i don't like it.

Andy Warhol played with the idea of the celebrity (namely, himself) - his life was his art.

Not my favourite, but it's up there:

A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the awfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this. No more can I turn the leaves of this dear book that I loved, and vainly hope in time to read it all. No more can I look into the depths of this unfathomable water, wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses of buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the book should shut with a spring, for ever and for ever, when I had read but a page. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an eternal frost, when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood in ignorance on the shore. My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead, my love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that individuality, and which I shall carry in mine to my life's end. In any of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?

Please respond.

He sought the dark and quiet places
Like those a mourning man embraces
And all the shadows he would find
Reflected those in his own mind

He knew he could not help but roam
Too far afield to hie him home
And so, one evening in the fall
He found the darkest place of all
And lingered there awhile

Now wrapped within his linen shroud
He finds the crows are much too loud
Who round about his crypt all flock
And with their croaking voices mock
The stillness of his grave