KNOW Magazine

What do we really Know?

216 notes

Don’t bend; don’t water it down; don’t try to make it logical; don’t edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.

(Source: baccararose)

909 notes

Life is short, break the rules, forgive quickly, kiss slowly, love truly, laugh uncontrollably, and never regret anything that made you smile. Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.

(Source: planestrainsnpages)

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Diving instructors sit on little, plastic chairs and call out to you in calm, impeccable, Etonian accents, ‘Hello there, sir! Could I possibly interest you in…?’ and you know right away that it’s a spiel; the same spiel the Phuket hotelier pedals, the same spiel you hear from the fruit-sellers and the fishmongers and from the dark seductress of the Thai massage-parlor, and yet, heard spoken in such a gentle and familiar manner, you aren’t sure what to do or where to look. You’re not sure whether or not to feel ashamed for the public-school dropout, or to envy him. They’re a curious race, the privileged, upper-classes living on South-East Asian islands. Sad yet you know they’ll return to a life of banking and investment and law eventually. And that’s what’s so off-putting about them. They aren’t desperate and yet they beg. They’ve got and will always have more money than me; more privilege, more opportunity, more experience and adventure that money can buy, and yet I should have to pay for it. It’s the British class system in a microcosm played out on an island in the Gulf of Thailand.
KNOW Magazine

Filed under diving instructors ko phi phi don thailand island class system eton thai travel

170 notes

So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, and all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars’ll be out, and don’t you know that God is Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all the rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty.” 

So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, and all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars’ll be out, and don’t you know that God is Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all the rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty.” 

(Source: mpdrolet)

Filed under jsck kerouac on the road happy birthday

153 notes

Let us record the atoms as they fall upon the mind in the order in which they fall, let us trace the pattern, however disconnected and incoherent in appearance, which each sight or incident scores upon the consciousness. Let us not take it for granted that life exists more fully in what is commonly thought big than in what is commonly thought small.
Virginia Woolf, from “Modern Fiction,” in Monday or Tuesday (Harcourt, 1921)

(Source: vwvw, via apoetreflects)

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“But now when the sun goes down and the holidaymakers start to leave and the local fisherman come and cast their lines from off the pier and are silhouetted by the red sunset, I think of the down-and-out bums lost in their alcoholic stupors. I think of the landscape; the rolling hills and snow-capped mountains. I think of the dead sheep lay in a heap among the herd. I think of the father and his mad son who are alone, and I think of Helena and my self and how we’re alone too. I think of the Senegalese vendors like ghosts who haunt the night, of those fishermen and of nature that surrounds us and at whose behest we may exist, and meanwhile it remains; the Pan di Zucchero, nature, the earth; enormous, mysterious, forever.”

But now when the sun goes down and the holidaymakers start to leave and the local fisherman come and cast their lines from off the pier and are silhouetted by the red sunset, I think of the down-and-out bums lost in their alcoholic stupors. I think of the landscape; the rolling hills and snow-capped mountains. I think of the dead sheep lay in a heap among the herd. I think of the father and his mad son who are alone, and I think of Helena and my self and how we’re alone too. I think of the Senegalese vendors like ghosts who haunt the night, of those fishermen and of nature that surrounds us and at whose behest we may exist, and meanwhile it remains; the Pan di Zucchero, nature, the earth; enormous, mysterious, forever.

Filed under writing travel life adventure literary writer author sardinia masua pan di zucchero