Perhaps the strongest evidence that women have as broad and deep a capacity for physical aggression as men is anecdotal. And as with men, this capacity has expressed itself in acts from the brave to the brutal, the selfless to the senseless.
Well, it arose out of two long-term concerns – the first being the possibility of genetic manipulation, nature versus nurture, what constitutes how people get to be how they are.
Let’s just say, the American school of suburban angst is not my cup of tea.
It is coincidence, I decide, and I am getting old and batty, thinking the universe revolves around me.
The more potent, unasked question is how society at large reacts to eager, voluntary violence by females, and to the growing evidence that women can be just as aggressive as men.
But the animation has become very good, and I think that a movie is not a book, and a book is not a movie.
Prior to penicillin and medical research, death was an everyday occurrence. It was intimate.
Like colors or a spring tree against that kind ofblue sky that pulls your heart out through your eyes. Pretty things will swarm you like that, like your heart was a hive of electric bees.
Just being visible is my biggest confession, so they try to set me at ease by revealing our equality, by dragging out their own less-apparent deformities.
I knew what he felt. The huge buoyant air sack of love that filled his body had just exploded and the collapse was devastating.
Then there are those who feel their own strangeness and are terrified by it. They struggle toward normalcy. They suffer to exactly that degree that they are unable to appear normal to others, or to convince themselves that their aberration does not exist. These are true freaks, who appear, almost always, conventional and dull.
Only a lunatic would want to be president. These lunatics are created deliberately by those who wish to be presided over. You’ve seen it a thousand times. We create a leader by locating one in the crowd who is standing up. This may well be because there are no chairs or because his knees are fused by arthritis. It doesn’t matter. We designate this victim as a ‘stand-up guy’ by the simple expedient of sitting down around him.” ARTURISM:.
All he had to do to make me like him was need me. All he had to do to make Arty like him was drop dead.
Take down Arty and Chick and Papa and the twins, and all that’s left of the Jar Kin, and, by then, Lily and me. Open our metal jars and pour all the Binewski dust together into that big battered loving cup that first held only Grandpa B. Bolt us to the hood of your traveling machine and take us on the road again.
The whiskey looks like transparent wood in my glass.
You just want to know that you’re all right. You just want to feel all right.” And now he dives into the sneer. Arty’s sneer could flay a rhino. “That’s all you need other people’s love for!
The more people we exclude, the more people will want to join. That’s what exclusive means.
The institution was a cross between an orphanage and a slaughterhouse. Worst of all, it was run entirely by norms. The word alone would set my chin trembling. I would beg and grieve and he would allow that I deserved another chance.
I don’t mind being lord of all I survey but I don’t want to have to work at it. It just wouldn’t be practical.
Grownups can deal with scraped knees, dropped ice-cream cones, and lost dollies, but if they suspected the real reasons we cry they would fling us out of their arms in horrified revulsion. Yet we are small and as terrified as we are terrifying in our ferocious appetites.