Probably” is a word with an emergency ejector seat.
Eva. Every day I’ve climbed up the belfry chanting a lucky chant at one syllable per beat, “To-day-to-day-let-her-be-here-to-day-to-day.
I wonder if you encountered this dictum first spoken by a twentieth-century statesman: “An abyss cannot be crossed in two steps.
Time is the speed at which the past decays.
Cowardice is nothing to do with it – suicide takes considerable courage. Japanese have the right idea. No, what selfish is to demand another to endure an intolerable existence, just to spare families, friends, and enemies a bit of soul-searching.
Only the trombonist played on. That’s trombonists for you.
Don’t let death, Jacob reproves himself, be your final thought.
The conflict between corporations and activists is that of narcolepsy versus remembrance. The corporations have money, power, and influence. Our weapon is public outrate.
Your place does keep you sane, but can also keep you lonely.
The glances musicians exchange, when music is effortless, that was what he wanted from Milly, that intimacy.
Ignorance of the Other engenders fear; fear engenders hatred; hatred engenders violence; violence engenders further violence until the only “right,” the only law, are whatever is willed by the most powerful.
Conduct your life in such a way that, when your train breaks down in the eve of your years, you have a warm, dry car driven by a loved one – or a hired one, it matters not – to take you home.
What man ain’t the honestest cove in his own eyes?” Grote’s round face is a bronze moon in the dark. “’Tain’t good intentions what paves the road to hell: it’s self-justifyin’s.
Novelists don’t have answers and ones that do I’m not sure you should trust.
Listening’s reading if you close your eyes. Music’s a wood you walk through.
Green is made of yellow and blue, nothing else, but when you look at green, where’ve the yellow and the blue gone? Somehow this is to do with Moran’s dad. Somehow this is to do with everyone and everything.
Every nowhere is a somewhere.
Foolproof depends on the size of the fool.
That’s writing, I suppose – dozens of decisions about what’s in, what’s out, what goes with what, what’s clever but not honest, what’s so honest that it’s a truism, what’s meretricious – and all just to produce one short sketch.
Fantasy. Lunacy. All revolutions are, until they happen, then they are historical inevitabilites.