What are you looking for Book 'Daily Rituals 2'? Paying supporters also get unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app. Daily Ritual is a 5 piece politically charged melodic punk rock band from. Please note that the tricks or techniques listed in this pdf are either fictional or claimed to work by its creator. We do not guarantee that these techniques will work for you.
Some of the techniques listed in Daily Rituals: How Artists Work may require a sound knowledge of Hypnosis, users are advised to either leave those sections or must have a basic understanding of the subject before practicing them. The remainder of the evenings was spent in his study, reading, writing, and doing editorial chores for psychoanalytical journals, until A.
Carl Jung In , Jung bought a parcel of land near the small village of Bollingen, Switzerland, and began construction on a simple two-story stone house along the shore of the upper basin of Lake Zurich. Over the next dozen years he modified and expanded the Bollingen Tower, as it became known, adding a pair of smaller auxiliary towers and a walled-in courtyard with a large outdoor fire pit.
Even with these additions, it remained a primitive dwelling. No floorboards or carpets covered the uneven stone floor. There was no electricity and no telephone. Water had to be brought up from the lake and boiled eventually, a hand pump was installed. At Bollingen, Jung rose at A. He generally set aside two hours in the morning for concentrated writing. The rest of his day would be spent painting or meditating in his private study, going for long walks in the hills, receiving visitors, and replying to the never-ending stream of letters that arrived each day.
Evenings, I light the old lamps. There is no running water, I pump the water from the well. I chop the wood and cook the food. These simple acts make man simple; and how difficult it is to be simple! Indeed, for most of his life, composing was a part-time activity. An excellent record of his habits there comes from the memoirs of his wife, Alma, a woman nineteen years his junior. Alma was pregnant with their first child; Mahler brought along the sketches for his Fifth Symphony, a breakthrough work that encompasses a vast swath of moods, from the opening funeral march to an achingly beautiful fourth movement dedicated to his new bride.
Mahler could not bear to see or speak to anyone before settling down to work in the morning, so the cook had to take a steep, slippery path to the hut rather than the main walkway, in order not to risk running into him.
Then he shut himself inside to work. She refrained from playing the piano, and promised the neighbors opera tickets if they would keep their dogs locked up. Mahler worked until midday, then silently returned to his room, changed clothes, and walked down to the lake for a swim.
Once he was in the water, he would whistle for his wife to join him on the beach. Mahler liked to lie in the sun until he was dry, then jump into the water again, often repeating this four or five times, which left him feeling invigorated and ready for lunch at home.
These composing breaks would sometimes last for an hour or longer, during which time Alma would sit on a branch or in the grass, not daring to look at her husband.
Prior to their marriage, she had been a promising composer in her own right, but Mahler had made her quit, saying that there could be only one composer in the family. As long as the work was going well, he was content. Even in late , when Strauss left Germany to recover from bouts of pleurisy and bronchitis in a warmer climate, he quickly established a regular work schedule. Conze for a piastre stake. At 7 dinner, after which I chat and smoke 8—12 a day , at half past 9 I go to my room, read for half an hour and put out the light at ten.
So it goes on day after day. After showing his guest his working space, his cages full of exotic birds, and his conservatory stocked with tropical plants, giant pumpkins, and Chinese statuettes, Matisse talked about his work habits.
For over fifty years I have not stopped working for an instant. I have lunch. Then I have a little nap and take up my brushes again at two in the afternoon until the evening. On Sundays, I have to tell all sorts of tales to the models. Naturally I pay them double. Finally, when I sense that they are not convinced, I promise them a day off during the week. I absolutely detest all openings and parties! They get on my tits! Toklas, fled Paris for a country home in Ain, on the eastern edge of France.
Miss Toklas, her companion, gets up at six and starts dusting and fussing around. It has its own toothbrush. Miss Stein has an outsize bathtub that was especially made for her. A staircase had to be taken out to install it. After her bath she puts on a huge wool bathrobe and writes for a while, but she prefers to write outdoors, after she gets dressed. Especially in the Ain country, because there are rocks and cows there.
Miss Stein likes to look at rocks and cows in the intervals of her writing. The two ladies drive around in their Ford till they come to a good spot.
Then Miss Stein gets out and sits on a campstool with pencil and pad, and Miss Toklas fearlessly switches a cow into her line of vision. When the great lady has an inspiration, she writes quickly, for about fifteen minutes. Gertrude Stein, Alice B. Toklas, and their poodle on the doorstep of their house in southern France, photo credit To be sure all day and every day you are waiting around to write that half hour a day. After her guests finally left, Stein would go wake Toklas, and they would talk over the entire day before both going to sleep.
Ernest Hemingway Throughout his adult life Hemingway rose early, at or , woken by the first light of day. There is no one to disturb you and it is cool or cold and you come to your work and warm as you write.
You read what you have written and, as you always stop when you know what is going to happen next, you go on from there. You write until you come to a place where you still have your juice and know what will happen next and you stop and try to live through until the next day when you hit it again. You have started at six in the morning, say, and may go on until noon or be through before that. Nothing can hurt you, nothing can happen, nothing means anything until the next day when you do it again.
It is the wait until that next day that is hard to get through. He wrote standing up, facing a chest-high bookshelf with a typewriter on top, and on top of that a wooden reading board. Living in Paris in the early s, Miller shifted his writing time, working from breakfast to lunch, taking a nap, then writing again through the afternoon and sometimes into the night. As he got older, though, he found that anything after noon was unnecessary and even counterproductive.
I believe in getting up from the typewriter, away from it, while I still have things to say. Scott Fitzgerald At the outset of his literary career, Fitzgerald demonstrated remarkable self-discipline. When he enlisted in the army in and was sent to training camp in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, the barely twenty-one-year-old Princeton dropout composed a ,word novel in only three months. By early , he had mailed off the manuscript that would eventually become, with major revisions, This Side of Paradise.
But in his post-military writing life, Fitzgerald always had trouble sticking to a regular schedule. Living in Paris in , he generally rose at A.
This method worked pretty well for short stories, which Fitzgerald preferred to compose in a spontaneous manner. When he was working on Tender Is the Night , Fitzgerald tried to reserve a portion of each day for sober composition. William Faulkner Faulkner usually wrote best in the morning, although throughout his life he was able to adapt to various schedules as necessary.
He wrote As I Lay Dying in the afternoons before clocking in on the night shift as a supervisor at a university power plant. He found the nocturnal schedule easy enough to manage: he would sleep in the morning for a few hours, write all afternoon, visit his mother for coffee on the way to work, and take catnaps throughout his undemanding shift.
This was Then he would wake early, eat breakfast, and write at his desk all morning. Faulkner liked to work in the library, and since the library door had no lock, he would remove the doorknob and take it with him. After a noon lunch, he would continue repairs on the house and take a long walk or go horseback riding.
In the evenings Faulkner and his wife would relax on the porch with a bottle of whiskey. He once wrote to his mother that he had managed ten thousand words in one day, working between A. And then I tear it up! Then, occasionally, something sticks. And then I follow that. The only image I can think of is a man walking around with an iron rod in his hand during a lightning storm. I like working to an exact timetable. I often thank my stars that I had a rather conventional upbringing, that I went to a rather strict school where one was made to work.
I then come back. In the morning Britten had a cold bath; in the evening, a hot one. In the summer he liked to swim, and he would play tennis on the weekends when he could. Around the house, he was hopeless. If he made his bed, he usually made a mess of it. My favorite hours are from to A. I need daylight to begin. After breakfast I work, and then take a break for coffee in the afternoon. But he gradually slipped back into old habits. In the afternoons he runs or swims or does both , runs errands, reads, and listens to music; bedtime is I mesmerize myself to reach a deeper state of mind.
He soon resolved to change his habits completely, moving with his wife to a rural area, quitting smoking, drinking less, and eating a diet of mostly vegetables and fish.
He also started running daily, a habit he has kept up for more than a quarter century. But he decided that the indispensable relationship in his life was with his readers. I had to write either in between those hours, hurriedly, or spend a lot of weekend and predawn time. I need that time in the evening because I can do a tremendous amount of work then.
And I can concentrate. When I sit down to write I never brood. It enables me, in some sense. Then she eats lunch and allows herself an afternoon break before resuming work from P. Sometimes she will continue writing after dinner, but more often she reads in the evening. Given the number of hours she spends at the desk, Oates has pointed out, her productivity is not really so remarkable.
Especially since my kids were born. And if I work more than three hours at a time, I really start screwing up. Sometimes I could go back and work in the evening, but basically it was counterproductive. Unfortunately, Close says, his life now has so many obligations that he is often unable to stick to this routine.
He tries to schedule all meetings and phone calls for after P. When he does find the time to work, he never lacks for ideas. It keeps me from being anxious. She writes: Back in the day, when my kids were little and I lived in the country and I was an unknown novelist, I had a schedule so regular that it was practically Pavlovian, and I loved it.
The school bus came, I started to write. The school bus returned, I stopped. I write whenever I am able, for a few days or a week or a month if I can get the time. When the writing is going well, I can work all day. John Adams b. You have to do it all by yourself. Then he heads into the studio and works from A. The problem is that you do get run out of concentration energy and sometimes you just want to take a mental break. Although he maintains a regular working schedule, Adams also tries not to overplan his musical life.
I somehow have this feeling that to keep the spontaneity from my creative work fresh I need to be in a state of rather shocking irresponsibility. The best thing to do is to just leave it and put your mind somewhere else, and not always but often the solution to that problem will bubble up spontaneously. Or at least a possible solution, which will either prove to be true or false.
It can almost be arbitrary. I find I have to do it for each book, have something different. Later, Baker worked a job outside of Boston that required a ninety- minute commute, so he bought a mini— cassette recorder and dictated his writing while he drove. For subsequent books, Baker says that he was not terribly strict about his writing schedule. Since he was busy during the day, Baker, inspired by the example of Frances Trollope see this page , resolved to write in the early mornings. Initially he tried to get up at A.
I found that I wrote differently then. And I write some. Make coffee sometimes, or not. I write for maybe an hour and a half. But then I get really sleepy. So I go back to sleep and then I wake up at around eight-thirty.
He continues to work more or less all day, stopping to have lunch, walk the dog, and run errands as necessary. Skinner — The founder of behavioral psychology treated his daily writing sessions much like a laboratory experiment, conditioning himself to write every morning with a pair of self-reinforcing behaviors: he started and stopped by the buzz of a timer, and he carefully plotted the number of hours he wrote and the words he produced on a graph.
In a journal entry, Skinner provided a detailed description of his routine: I rise sometime between 6 and often after having heard the radio news. My breakfast, a dish of corn flakes, is on the kitchen table. Coffee is made automatically by the stove timer.
I breakfast alone. A couple of pages every day, straight through. The morning papers Boston Globe, N. Times arrive, thrown against the wall or door of the kitchen where I breakfast. I read the Globe, often saving the Times till later.
At seven or so I go down to my study, a walnut-paneled room in our basement. As I sit down I turn on a special desk light. This starts a clock, which totalizes my time at my desk. Every twelve hours recorded on it, I plot a point on a cumulative curve, the slope of which shows my overall productivity. To the right of my desk is an electric organ, on which a few minutes each day I play Bach Chorales etc.
Later in the morning I go to my office. These days I leave just before 10 so that Debbie can ride with me to her summer school class. In my office I open and answer mail, see people if necessary. Get away as soon as possible, usually in time for lunch at home. Afternoons are not profitably spent, working in [the] garden, swimming in our pool. Summers we often have friends in for a swim and drinks from 5 to 7 or possibly 8. Then dinner. Light reading. Little or no work. In bed by or I have a clip- board, paper pad and pencil with a small flashlight attached to the board for making notes at night.
I am not an insomniac. I enjoy that nightly hour and make good use of it. I sleep alone. By the time Skinner retired from his Harvard teaching post in , that nightly hour of sleeplessness had become an integral part of his routine. His timer now rang four times a day: at midnight, A. Margaret Mead — The renowned cultural anthropologist was always working; indeed, not working seemed to agitate and unsettle her.
Once, during a two-week symposium, Mead learned that a certain morning session had been postponed. She was furious. Why did nobody have the politeness to tell me this meeting had been rescheduled? For the horseback rides, he employed a mnemonic device, described by the biographer George W. When he returned home he would unpin these and write down each idea.
At the ends of trips of several days, his clothes might be covered by quite a few of these slips of paper. Boswell quotes the recollections of Rev. He generally had a levee of morning visitors, chiefly men of letters … and sometimes learned ladies. I never could discover how he found time for his compositions. I fancy he must have read and wrote chiefly in the night, for I can scarcely recollect that he ever refused going with me to a tavern.
Thus I should be gently forced into what is good for me. The fullest description of his routine comes from February I move like very clock-work. At eight in the morning Molly [the maid] lights the fire, sweeps and dresses my dining-room. I lie some time in bed indulging indolence, which in that way, when the mind is easy and cheerful, is most pleasing.
I then slip on my clothes loosely, easily and quickly, and come into my dining-room. I pull my bell. The maid lays a milk-white napkin upon the table and sets the things for breakfast. I then take some light amusing book and breakfast and read for an hour or more, gently pleasing both my palate and my mental taste. Breakfast over, I feel myself gay and lively.
I go to the window, and am entertained with the people passing by, all intent on different schemes. Besides, every day cannot be passed exactly the same way in every particular. My day is in general diversified with reading of different kinds, playing on the violin, writing, chatting with my friends.
Even the taking of medicines serves to make time go on with less heaviness. I have a sort of genius for physic and always had great entertainment in observing the changes of the human body and the effects produced by diet, labour, rest, and physical operations. I drink a great deal of tea. Between eleven and twelve my bed is warmed and I go calmly to repose. I am not at all unsatisfied with this kind of existence.
This was Boswell on one of his good days. There seemed to be little he could do to control these black moods. Always remember that, and it will never surprise you. A lifelong bachelor, he taught the same courses at the local university for more than forty years.
His was a life of ordered regularity—which later gave rise to a portrait of the philosopher as a sort of characterless automaton. For he neither had a life nor a history. I do not believe that the large clock of the Cathedral there completed its task with less passion and less regularity than its fellow citizen Immanuel Kant. Getting up, drinking coffee, writing, giving lectures, eating, taking a walk, everything had its set time, and the neighbors knew precisely that the time was P.
Kant loved to socialize, and he was a gifted conversationalist and a genial host. If he failed to live a more adventurous life, it was largely due to his health: the philosopher had a congenital skeletal defect that caused him to develop an abnormally small chest, which compressed his heart and lungs and contributed to a generally delicate constitution.
Thus, before his fortieth birthday, Kant would sometimes stay out until midnight playing cards; after forty, he stuck to his daily routine without exception. This routine was as follows: Kant rose at A. Then he drank one or two cups of weak tea and smoked his pipe.
Lectures began at A. His academic duties discharged, Kant would go to a restaurant or a pub for lunch, his only real meal of the day.
He did not limit his dining company to his fellow academics but enjoyed mixing with townspeople from a variety of backgrounds. As for the meal itself, he preferred simple fare, with the meat well done, accompanied by good wine. They would converse until on weekdays on weekends, perhaps joined by another friend. Returning home, Kant would do some more work and read before going to bed precisely at William James — In April , a twenty-eight-year-old James made a cautionary note to himself in his diary.
James was writing from personal experience—the hypothetical sufferer is, in fact, a thinly disguised description of himself. For James kept no regular schedule, was chronically indecisive, and lived a disorderly, unsettled life. As Robert D. He drank moderately and would have a cocktail before dinner. He stopped smoking and drinking coffee in his mid-thirties, although he would cheat with the occasional cigar. He suffered from insomnia, particularly when he was deep into a writing project, and beginning in the s he used chloroform to put himself to sleep.
He procrastinated. He wrote every day, beginning in the morning and usually ending at about lunchtime. In his later years, severe wrist pain forced him to abandon his pen for dictation to a secretary, who would arrive each day at A.
Like Anthony Trollope this page , James started a new book the instant the old one was finished. Although this was a distinct improvement over his previous job at a different insurance firm, which required long hours and frequent overtime, Kafka still felt stymied; he was living with his family in a cramped apartment, where he could muster the concentration to write only late at night, when everyone else was asleep.
Then again exercises, as above, but of course avoiding all exertions, a wash, and then, usually with a slight pain in my heart and twitching stomach muscles, to bed.
Then every imaginable effort to get to sleep— i. Thus the night consists of two parts: one wakeful, the other sleepless, and if I were to tell you about it at length and you were prepared to listen, I should never finish.
So it is hardly surprising if, at the office the next morning, I only just manage to start work with what little strength is left. In his daily habits, at least, he was not given to self-control or even much regularity. Joyce was struggling to find a publisher for Dubliners, and was teaching private piano lessons at home. Sometimes his Polish tailor called, and would sit discoursing on the edge of the bed while Joyce listened and nodded.
About eleven he rose, shaved, and sat down at the piano which he was buying slowly and perilously on the installment plan. As often as not his singing and playing were interrupted by the arrival of a bill collector. Joyce was notified and asked what was to be done. That visit over, Joyce returned to the piano, until Nora interrupted. At the lessons, Joyce smoked long cheroots called Virginias; between pupils, he drank black coffee. About twice a week, Joyce stopped his lessons early so he and Nora could go to an opera or a play.
This description captures Joyce at a low ebb in his writing career. By he had begun Ulysses, and then he worked indefatigably on the book every day—although he still stuck to his preferred schedule of writing in the afternoons and staying out late drinking with friends. He felt he needed the nightly breaks to clear his head from literary labor that was exacting and exhausting. Once, after two days of work yielded only two finished sentences, Joyce was asked if he had been seeking the right words.
What I am seeking is the perfect order of words in the sentences I have. From until his death, Proust devoted the whole of his life to the writing of his monumental novel of time and memory, Remembrance of Things Past, eventually published in seven volumes, adding up to nearly 1. Upon waking in the late afternoon— typically about or P.
Then he would ring for his longtime housekeeper and confidante, Celeste, to serve the coffee. This was an elaborate ritual in its own right. Celeste then waited in the kitchen in case Proust rang a second time, which signaled that he was ready to receive a second croissant always kept at the ready and a fresh jug of boiled milk to mix with the remaining coffee. And sometimes only one croissant! As he dipped his croissant in his coffee, Proust would open the mail and sometimes read choice passages aloud to Celeste.
Then he carefully worked his way through several daily newspapers, displaying a keen interest not only in literature and the arts but politics and finance as well. Afterward, if Proust had decided to go out that evening, he would begin the many preparations that entailed: making telephone calls, ordering the car, getting dressed. Otherwise, he began work soon after finishing with the newspaper, writing for a few hours at a stretch before ringing for Celeste to bring him something or join him for a chat.
Sometimes these chats could go on for hours, particularly if Proust had recently gone out or received an interesting visitor—he seemed to use the chats as a rehearsal ground for his fiction, drawing out the nuances and hidden meaning of a conversation or encounter until he was ready to capture it on the page. Proust wrote exclusively in bed, lying with his body almost completely horizontal and his head propped up by two pillows. To reach the exercise book resting on his lap, he had to lean awkwardly on one elbow, and his only working light was a weak, green-shaded bedside lamp.
Thus any substantial period of work left his wrist cramped and his eyes exhausted. If he felt too tired to concentrate, Proust would take a caffeine tablet, and when he was finally ready to sleep, he would counteract the caffeine with Veronal, a barbital sedative. He thought suffering had value, and that it was the root of great art. His routine was for the most part simple enough. He would then leave for his late-night perambulation of the bars of Montparnasse, drinking copious amounts of cheap red wine, returning before dawn and the long attempt to sleep.
His entire life revolved around his almost psychotic obsession to write. The siege began with an epiphany. On a late-night walk near Dublin harbor, Beckett found himself standing on the end of a pier in the midst of a winter storm. In accepting it, I will make it work for me. Generally, three hours of composition were the most he could manage in a day, although he would do less demanding tasks—writing letters, copying scores, practicing the piano—in the afternoon.
Unless he was touring, Stravinsky worked on his compositions daily, with or without inspiration, he said. When talking he would stop, bend one knee a little, adjust his pince-nez and place his fist on his hip. Then he would take off once more, with small deliberate steps. Locals who saw him pass by each day soon began calling him the Velvet Gentleman. When he could, Satie earned some money in the evening playing piano for cabaret singers. The last train back to Arcueil left at A.
Then he would walk the several miles home, sometimes not arriving until the sun was about to rise. Nevertheless, as soon as they next morning dawned, he would set off to Paris once more. The new situation suited his growing fame as a painter, as well as his lifelong bourgeois aspirations.
Picasso took over its large, airy studio, forbade anyone from entering without his permission, and surrounded himself with his painting supplies, piles of miscellaneous junk, and a menagerie of pets, including a dog, three Siamese cats, and a monkey named Monina. Throughout his life, Picasso went to bed late and got up late.
At the boulevard de Clichy, he would shut himself in the studio by P. When he finally emerged from his studio, however, he was hardly good company. Picasso would make more of an effort to be sociable if guests were present, as they frequently were. He had mixed feelings about entertaining. Picasso claimed that, even after three or four hours standing in front of a canvas, he did not feel the slightest fatigue.
This is my only rule. Sartre lived in a creative frenzy for most of his life, alternating between his daily six hours of work and an intense social life filled with rich meals, heavy drinking, drugs, and tobacco. On a typical day, Sartre worked in his Paris apartment until noon, then went out for an hour of appointments scheduled by his secretary. At on the dot he pushed away from the table and rushed back to his apartment for his second period of work, this time joined by Beauvoir.
At night he slept badly, knocking himself out for a few hours with barbiturates. By the s, too much work on too little sleep—with too much wine and cigarettes—had left Sartre exhausted and on the verge of collapse.
T he prescribed dose was one or two tablets in the morning and at noon. Sartre took twenty a day, beginning with his morning coffee and slowly chewing one pill after another as he worked. For each tablet, he could produce a page or two of his second major philosophical work, The Critique of Dialectical Reason. This was hardly his only excess. It was only a question of separating them and writing them on the paper. During his eight years of employment there, the Missouri- born poet assumed the guise of the archetypal English businessman: bowler hat, pin-striped suit, umbrella rolled carefully under one arm, hair parted severely on the side.
Eliot took the train into the city each morning and, from the railroad station, joined the crowd crossing London Bridge a scene he would draw on for the Unreal City portion of The Waste Land.
The literary critic I. The big table almost entirely filled a little room under the street. Within a foot of our heads when we stood were the thick, green glass squares of the pavement on which hammered all but incessantly the heels of the passers-by. There was just room for two perches beside the table.
Although Richards paints a depressing picture, Eliot was grateful for the job. By contrast, Lloyds was a godsend. It is not nearly so fatiguing as school teaching, and is more interesting.
It was an ideal arrangement, but over time the routine became dulling. When Eliot found out about the plan he was appreciative but embarrassed; he preferred the security and independence afforded by Lloyds.
He remained there until , when he accepted an editorial position at the publishing firm Faber and Gwyer later Faber and Faber , where he would stay for the rest of his career. The Russian composer was able to conceptualize a new work entirely in his head, and then write it down with extreme rapidity—if uninterrupted, he could average twenty or thirty pages of score a day, making virtually no corrections as he went.
It was a mystery how he managed to compose so much music. After forty minutes or so he would turn up again. Let me kick the ball. Every now and then he would disappear for a while and then join us again. Towards the end of my stay, he disappeared altogether.
Then he turned up, unshaven and looking exhausted. Dmitry Shostakovich, circa s photo credit Although his fellow composers were amazed by the speed and sureness with which he conceived new works, Shostakovich himself was afraid that perhaps he worked too fast.
Undoubtedly this is bad. Henry Green — Green led a double life. Called Pontifex, its chief product was a high-pressure filling machine for beer bottling. He feared his own volatility and often referred to his need for habitual routines to keep him sane. The job gave him day-to-day stability as well as experiences that he could use in his writing. It was also much less demanding than fiction. According to Treglown, a typical day in the life of Henry Yorke, managing director of Pontifex, looked something like this: He arrived at work at about A.
At , he left to spend the middle part of the workday at a nearby pub, refreshing himself with a couple of pints of beer before returning to gin. When the managing director finally returned to the office, he repeated his morning routine and then—maybe— wrote a page or two of his novel before catching the bus home. After dinner and any social engagements, he would settle into his armchair with a notebook and a cheap pen wrapped with a bandage to make it easier to grip and scribble away until about midnight.
An interviewer later asked if this discovery affected his business relationships: Yes, yes, oh yes—why, some years ago a group at our Birmingham works put in a penny each and bought a copy of a book of mine, Living. I never had a definite place which was my room or where I retired specially to write.
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