Christian Molenaar

Category: Nothings

  • Strangers on a Train

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    I want an Amtrak hamburger. And a coffee. Read more

  • July 5

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    Kafka’s diary, July 5, 1914 Read more

  • July 1

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    Kafka’s diary, July 1, 1914 Read more

  • Memorial Day

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    After the ceremony we went out for dim sum and argued about our apartment. When our Lyft driver came he said we were his first partiers of the night. We told him we were going to my mom’s house. He was listening to a podcast about Memorial Day. The host spoke in low, grave tones,… Read more

  • Cowboy

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    The cowboy hat sits high on the crown of his patchy scalp, stilted and unnatural. Read more

  • Now Spring Had Come

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    The 22nd of March 1832 had come.  In his armchair, a coverlet upon his knees, the green shade over his eyes, Goethe died.  The dread and anxiety that often precede death by some time were over and done; he suffered no more, he had suffered himself out.  And when he asked what day of the month it was, and… Read more

Thought:

“Our works in stone, in paint, in print, are spared, some of them, for a few decades or a millennium or two, but everything must finally fall in war, or wear away into the ultimate and universal ash — the triumphs, the frauds, the treasures and the fakes. A fact of life: we’re going to die. “Be of good heart,” cry the dead artists out of the living past. “Our songs will all be silenced, but what of it? Go on singing.” Maybe a man’s name doesn’t matter all that much.”

Orson Welles

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