I’ll give you a theory: Man’s closest relative is not the chimpanzee, as the TV people believe, but is, in fact, the dog.
Very gently. Like there are eggshells on your pedals, and you don’t want to break them. That’s how you drive in the rain.
Your car goes where your eyes go. Lonliness is unable to survive without a willing host.
And I wonder: Have I squandered my dogness? Have I forsaken my nature for my desires? Have I made a mistake by anticipating my future and shunning my present?
I know in this time of great technological advancement, the idea of reading a book seems almost anachronistic, but I think it’s worth preserving.
Gestures are all that I have; sometimes they must be grand in nature.
We are all afforded our physical existence so we can learn about ourselves.
The visible becomes inevitable...
In racing, they say that your car goes where your eyes go. The driver who cannot tear his eyes away from the wall as he spins out of control will meet that wall; the driver who looks down the track as he feels his tires break free will regain control of his vehicle.
We had a good run, and now it’s over; what’s wrong with that?
Using a dog as a narrator has limitations and it has advantages. The limitations are that a dog cannot speak. A dog has no thumbs. A dog can’t communicate his thoughts except with gestures.
So what if man’s body evolved from the monkeys? Whether he came from monkeys or fish is unimportant. The important idea is that when the body became “human” enough, the first human soul slipped into it.
Anyone who has a dog knows that they have some very deep thoughts, that they have moods and emotions, they get their feelings hurt. It’s not a far reach to give them opinions and values and long-term desires.
I think the one that’s going to be the hardest to make into a film is the one that’s probably going to be made into a film, which is ‘The Art of Racing in the Rain.’ I mean, it’s narrated by a dog. How do you do that? But hopefully we’ll get to see.
I’m a writer because I love reading. I love the conversation between a reader and a writer, and that it all takes place in a book-sort of a neutral ground. A writer puts down the words, and a reader interprets the words, and every reader will read a book differently. I love that.
I hear hundreds of years of life. I hear wind and rain and fire and beetles. I hear the seasons changing and birds and squirrels. I hear the life of the trees this wood came from.
He is so brilliant. He shines. He’s beautiful with his hands that grab things and his tongue that says things and the way he stands and chews his food for so long, mashing it into a paste before he swallows.
That which you manifest is before you. The visible becomes inevitable. Your car goes where your eyes go.
It’s so hard to communicate because there are so many moving parts. There’s presentation and there’s interpretation and they’re so dependent on each other it makes things very difficult.
The race is long. It is better to drive within oneself and finish the race behind the other than it is to drive too hard and crash.
But that day I was anxious. I was nervous and worried, uneasy and distracted. I paced around and never felt settled. I didn’t care for the sensation, yet I realized it was possibly a natural progression of my evolving soul, and therefore I tried my best to embrace it.