In this film with Christopher Plummer, his son makes a book
called The History of Sadness. Mother, when I say the history
of sadness, I mean the day I was born. Tomorrow in Australia
and Japan, I will turn twenty years old, and I have been kissed
by two boys and three girls. When…
Anderson’s films, like the boxes of Cornell or the novels of Nabokov, understand and demonstrate that the magic of art, which renders beauty out of brokenness, disappointment, failure, decay, even ugliness and violence—is authentic only to the degree that it attempts to conceal neither the bleak facts nor the tricks employed in pulling off the presto change-o. It is honest only to the degree that it builds its precise and inescapable box around its maker’s x:y scale version of the world.
“For my next trick,” says Joseph Cornell, or Vladimir Nabokov, or Wes Anderson, “I have put the world into a box.” And when he opens the box, you see something dark and glittering, an orderly mess of shards, refuse, bits of junk and feather and butterfly wing, tokens and totems of memory, maps of exile, documentation of loss. And you say, leaning in, “The world!”
What I’ve been learning over the course of my life is that diagnoses exist to help get people services they need— but there’s no such thing as mental illness. We’re all mentally ill and we’re all haunted by something, and some people manage to find a way to ride it out so that they don’t wind up needing extra help. So I think that “mental illness,” as a term, is garbage. Everybody is in various states of needing to transcend something. I believe in mental health care, but when we call people “crazy,” we exclude them from our circle. That’s bogus— you’re in the same boat as they are! Maybe some people are better at pretending they don’t harbor all kinds of issues, but, really, everyone has them. Everybody experiences reality in a way that’s only true for them.
—John Darnielle, Pitchfork interview
andtentoes asked: haha well i appreciate the fun fact. how did you find out about that?
Well, I live in NM, and Trinidad is just north of the border.
Other than that, I get trapped (“It’s a trap!”) into all these conversations with a co-worker who basically spills every random factoid she’s ever learned from reading celebrity gossip blogs and watching reality TV shoes on cable.
In fact, I’m glad you appreciated that fun fact, because many of my brain cells were killed to obtain that information (wow, I’m really feeling high-schooly with all these semi-inadvertent Star Wars references).