The man watched him. Real life is pretty bad? What do you think? Well, I think we’re still here. A lot of bad things have happened but we’re still here. Yeah. You don’t think that’s so great. It’s okay.
But there are no absolutes in human misery and things can always get worse.
Where men can’t live gods fare no better.
It may be that the life I desire for her no longer even exists, yet I know what she does not. That there is nothing to lose.
Finally he said that among men there was no such communion as among horses and the notion that men can be understood at all was probably an illusion.
Men say they only learn this but he said that no creature can learn that which his heart has no shape to hold.
When the shooting starts would you rather be armed or legal?
It takes very little to govern good people. Very little. And bad people cant be governed at all. Or if they could I never heard of it.
Well, I guess in all honesty I would have to say that I never knew nor did I ever hear of anybody that money didnt change.
Maybe. Anyway, some men get what they want. No man. Or perhaps only briefly so as to lose it. Or perhaps only to prove to the dreamer that the world of his longing made real is no longer that world at all.
Acts have their being in the witness. Without him who can speak of it? In the end one could even say that the act is nothing, the witness all.
It is community and respect, of course, but the dead have more claims on you than what you might want to admit or even what you might know about and them claims can be very strong indeed. Very strong indeed.
But I didn’t know what to say to him. What do you say to a man that by his own admission has no soul? Why would you say anything?
If people knew the story of their lives, how many would then elect to live them?
They came upon themselves in a mirror and he almost raised the pistol. It’s us, Papa, the boy whispered. It’s us.
Words pale and lose their savor while pain is always new.
He thought that in the history of the world it might even be that there was more punishment than crime but he took small comfort from it.
Yet it is the narrative that is the life of the dream while the events themselves are often interchangeable. The events of the waking world on the other hand are forced upon us and the narrative is the unguessed axis along which they must be strung.
Hard weather, says the old man. So let it be. Wrap me in the weathers of the earth, I will be hard and hard. My face will wash rain like the stones.
Not all dying words are true and this blessing is no less real for being shorn of its ground.