The best way to waste your life is by taking notes. The easiest way to avoid living is to just watch. Look for the details. Report. Don’t participate. Let Big Brother do the singing and dancing for you. Be a reporter. Be a good witness. A grateful member of the audience.
As the French say, who doesn’t like getting their butt sucked?
Trust me, the being-dead part is much easier than the dying part. If you can watch much television, then being dead will be a cinch. Actually, watching television and surfing the Internet are really excellent practice for being dead.
Big Brother fills us all with the same crap. My guess is he was clever the same way everybody thinks they’re clever. I tell her to type in ’password.
Given the choice between grabbing a strange tongue and watching a monster poop into a giant snail shell, the face retreats and slams the door behind it.
Peter used to say that an artist’s job is to make order out of chaos. You collect details, look for a pattern, and organize. You make sense out of senseless facts. You puzzle together bits of everything. You shuffle and reorganize. Collage. Montage. Assemble.
You’re a different human being to everybody you meet.
You have a class of young men and women, and they want to give their lives to something. Advertising has these people chasing cars and clothes they don’t need. Generations have been working in jobs they hate, just so they can buy what they don’t really need.
Nothing is static. Even the Mona Lisa is falling apart.
I spent my life attacking everything because I was too afraid to risk creating anything”... “Nothing was ever good enough,” my mom says, “so here at the end of my life, I’m left with nothing.
The muffled thunder of dialogue comes through the walls, then a chorus of laughter. Then more thunder. Most of the laugh tracks on television were recorded in the early 1950s. These days, most of the people you hear laughing are dead.
We see what we want. We see how we want. We only see ourselves.
She’d lived through something the rest of them could never imagine. So much torture and horror that she didn’t need to tell people about it. She’d never need drama or joy or pain ever again.
Brandy says, “Don’t you see? Because we’re so trained to do life the right way. To not make mistakes.” Brandy says, “I figure, the bigger the mistake looks, the better chance I’ll have to break out and live a real life.
You’ve never seen a crucifix with a Jesus who wasn’t almost naked. You’ve never seen a fat Jesus. Or a Jesus with body hair. Every crucifix you’ve ever seen, the Jesus could be shirtless and modeling designer jeans or men’s cologne.
In truth, the degree of anyone’s succes depends on how often they can say the word ‘yes’ and hear the word ‘no.’ Those many times you are thwarted yet persevere.
Because supposedly those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it.
How could you ever bring yourself to love so deeply if you truly knew how brief a lifetime could be?
Every planet will take on the corporate identity of whoever rapes it first.
They placed their bets with such self righteous bravado, but I’m the one who lost.