Fame.

INTERVIEWER

Why do you think fame is so destructive for a writer?

GARCÍA MÁRQUEZ

Primarily because it invades your private life. It takes away from the time that you spend with friends, and the time that you can work. It tends to isolate you from the real world. A famous writer who wants to continue writing has to be constantly defending himself against fame. I don’t really like to say this because it never sounds sincere, but I would really have liked for my books to have been published after my death, so I wouldn’t have to go through all this business of fame and being a great writer. In my case, the only advantage in fame is that I have been able to give it a political use. Otherwise, it is quite uncomfortable. The problem is that you’re famous for twenty-four hours a day and you can’t say, “Okay, I won’t be famous until tomorrow,” or press a button and say, “I won’t be famous here or now.”

"They asked me if I knew of any drugs, so I told them about your smile"

sxstones:

Fantasia Killa. 

sxstones:

No Mayo Six

When we go digital we trade empathy for narcissism. Lose physical presence for specters of unemotional attachment.

madmen-amc:

Everything’s better in slo-mo.

vineofficial:

This is fucked upThis fucked me up

vineofficial:

This is fucked up
This fucked me up

(via wordma)

plant a tree. then go grocery shopping.

"The point is, we’ve all been waiting to see what Matthew Weiner will do with and to Don Draper. And we’ve all been waiting to see how the lives of the rest of the players on that wonderful internal drama unfold. I have the utmost confidence that Weiner and his writers will pull it off. When that happens, a re-examination of which series falls into the No. 2 or No. 3 slot can ensue. Because remember — neither The Wire nor Breaking Bad had to produce a sixth season. That’s an enormous burden to sidestep — as evidenced by the wayward zig-zagging of The Sopranos as it prepared for the end, or how Mad Men was forced to tap-dance in preparation for season seven. The unthinkable difficulty of producing genius for five seasons is further cemented by the fact that if you can’t end the story definitively in that fifth season, then the tail end of it becomes one very dicey proposition creatively. So, too, is the preparation and execution of a sixth season made qualitatively perilous when you can’t give closure in that season either — the heritage begins to calcify even in the most able of hands.
From brilliant to beleaguered and openly doubted at this point, a series creator must conjure up all of the storylines from a nitpicked sixth season and marshal them for a dramatically distinguished charge into a seventh season. Not to put too fine a point on it, people, but Mad Men = uncharted territory when it comes to delineating its legacy."

Tim Goodman