I don’t know how anybody gets better at anything aside from doing it.
The difference in mind between man and the higher animals, great as it is, certainly is one of degree and not of kind. – CHARLES DARWIN.
He was impressed with his father’s fiction and noticed certain stylistic tics that he shared, and figured it was genetic. Why would genes determine only physical traits, eye color and left-handedness? Why not other, more subtle, bodiless proclivities such as a love of the semicolon and a propensity to string modifying clauses ad infinitum?
I told you already that Mother Earth is our god, and the only thing that offends our god is waste and pollution, not words and pictures and jokes. I have nothing but sympathy for reverence of God in the abstract. Love of God and life is as natural as the force that holds the planets in their dance.
Maybe you should go back down to the house.′ I said, ‘I’m never going down there again, I hate people.’ And she said, ‘Don’t hate. Hate is like a poison you make for your enemy that you end up swallowing yourself.’ And I said, ‘Nice one, Obovine-Wan Kenobi.
You, me, the animals in the wild, the animal at your feet, the animal on your plate, the person next to you – We are all one We are all holy cows Moo.
Like many who are unable to play the game Ted had great insight into it. Perhaps being barred from success in a thing makes you overly perceptive of what makes success or failure in that thing, causes you to obsess on its technicalities and mysteries; whereas the gifted do not learn, they merely do, the less gifted stew, and ponder, and worry; they learn it the hard way and then they can teach it. The gifted can’t teach what they never learned.
Digression and digestion. It’s what we do.
Though there were some muted colors, the world in here felt black and white. Filled with essentials for a man who had no needs. The.
As John Milton put it centuries ago in Areopagitica: “I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her adversary.” Ideas should be engaged in the same Darwinian struggle as all the rest of life.
Ted hated that moment when they saw that it was only him. Like it was just a terrible mistake, like he himself was a mistake. It.
The way they talked about what happened, Mary said, was almost more important than what had happened.
Dickinson had no voice in her own time, as a woman, so she stuffed her silent screams, more than eight hundred of them, in a drawer and waited for eternity hear. And eternity did hear.
He got out of the car and headed up to the house. He looked on the sidewalk where once he had scratched his name on the wet cement, but it was no longer there. It was smooth, like when a wave washes away initials in a heart someone drew in the sand. Always more waves than words in hearts in the sand, it seemed.
And the bowling average? The obsession with statistics, the purity and power of the numbers worked to the seventh decimal place, as if some truth were hidden in the golden mean. He could feel his young self grasping for solidity in those numbers, keys to himself – I am this concrete, numerical thing. I am 134.7538658.
Ted’s old single bed had weird dreams in it.
When Ted opened the door to find Mariana there, his first thought was, “I don’t know what I’m wearing.” And he didn’t look down; he had a bad feeling and didn’t want to face it, he kept his eyes on the girl, who said, “Hello, Theodore.
They drove farther north like that. In perfect loving antagonism. It occurred to Ted that maybe Marty was like all the red and gold leaves he saw burning on the trees. In nature, it seems, things reached their most vibrant and beautiful right at the point of death, flaming out with all they had – why not natural man? His father was red, green, yellow, and gold, like a beautiful bird falling from the sky. Parodoxical undressing again.
He liked how sometimes science helped him to know and hate himself more thoroughly.
Of course I’m biased, what else could I be? Bias makes the world go round, sometimes a little too fast.
Haat is een vergif dat je bereidt voor je vijand, maar uiteindelijk zelf inslikt.