"They were six perfect strangers assembled to pull off the perfect crime, but when their simple robbery explodes into bloody ambush, the ruthless killers realize one of them is a police informer. But which one?"
-„You’re not your job. You’re not how much money you have in the bank. You’re not the car you drive. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You’re not your fucking khakis. You’re the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world”
Rock ‘n’ roll got its deserved hero. When Jack White stepped up and was like. ‘Watch me devastate your entire fucking industry and all of your expectations of rock with a plastic guitar,’ and his pal on the drums, and literally release records without bass, with beautifully out-of-tune but seriously correct parts. And on analogue equipment with a guy that basically kinda went, ‘Hey, guess what? CDs are over.’ Just at the helm of that. CDs are fucked and everyone is stealing the records on computers. It was like watching everybody in the music industry get what they deserve at the hands of this guy out of Detroit who’s seriously, seriously consumed the power of the mythological shit from Led Zeppelin and the blues elements. I mean think about that rock ‘n’ roll starts with the blues, and the real industrial part of music dies with the blues—with a fucking blues champion. Like all of a sudden here’s this hero and you can’t manufacture what that is … like really you can’t. That’s the sickest story ever.
By Ryan Adams, on Jack White Uncut (2014)
[…] I do want it to be a beautiful book because it seems important to me that people try to write beautifully, now more than ever because the world is so crazy and only art is sane and it has been proven time after time that after the ruins of a civilization are cleared away all that remains are the poems, the paintings, the sculptures, the books.
By truman capote, 1942, on his novel ”other voices, other rooms”, from a letter to robert linscott (via theunderwave)