4.5 stars
Quotes I liked
The Prince of Milk Exurb1a Z-Library.epub (Highlight: 23; Note: 0)
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▪ Watch out, you might get what you're after.
— Talking Heads
Time will perfect matter.
— Terence Mckenna
But there's an altar in the valley, for things in themselves as they are.
— Silver Jews
▪ In his mind he sees the gaunt and crinkled face staring back at him from The Old Curmudgeon’s window; its eyes not those of the old face they sit in, but of a young boy’s like his own who has simply seen too much of the world and would rather it just went away.
▪ “What lovely sunflowers you have.”
“Precious things,” Augustus says. “Living on the edge of life, as everything must. Just a few days out of the sun, or starved of water, and they wither. And no policeman would come investigating after their deaths.”
“Excuse my husband once again,” Mary says. “He is always strange in the summer.”
▪ “You were expecting my dad when you knocked on the door, weren't you?” Zoe says. Eric nods. “You looked afraid. Were you afraid?” He nods again. “You mustn't be scared of him. He's just lonely. If we're scared of lonely people, they'll only get lonelier.”
▪ He glances at the scars again. Seems insane, he thinks, that something so beautiful would want to remove itself from the world. But then maybe that's how beauty keeps its market value, else the world would be full of beautiful things and no one would give a damn about any of them.
▪ Now remember, why did you end it, dickhead?
Yes, because I never felt I was enough. Because I thought I'd rather stay alone than be an option to someone I considered a priority. Because I was too ashamed to give away just how insecure I felt back then. Because I was young. Because I was pathetic.
And what I wouldn't give to just sleep next to you one more time.
▪ She waggles her head a little awkwardly. “I have these episodes where I don't want to be around anymore. The gods don't take kindly to their creations trying to off themselves, do they? Yahweh forbids it. My father wasn't too keen either.”
▪ “Tom Downing said you tried to do yourself in.”
A pause, then Zoe says, “You don’t know what that means, do you?” Eric shakes his head. “It means I tried to kill myself.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know really. Why do you want to visit the future so badly? I bet if you look really carefully you’ll see you're not excited about the future at all, you just don't like the present that much. Well I guess I feel the same way.”
▪ “No, that's not it. Regardless, all you need to do is stay as calm as possible. In future, if you see anything strange and want to run away, just remember how strange everything is already. You're a thinking bag of meat standing on an organic spaceship. And that doesn't seem to bother you. Why should a talking cat make the situation any worse?”
▪ “Some people seem to keep it all together, don't they?” Rupert says.
“Happy people are just people you aren't acquainted enough with yet to know how miserable they really are.”
▪ There is just enough time, and no more and no less than that.
▪ “We haven't explored the stars.”
“You will. But all that wandering is only good for so long. One day your kind will expand across the entire galaxy, and more. The emperors of that time will feel just as hollow as the politicians of yours. But there are other horizons beyond that one.”
▪ “Do you know the problem of evil, Jennifer?” She shook her head. “Well, it applies to our situation just as well as any other. There is evil in the world, yet God claims he loves us. If he could remove that evil but chooses not to, then he is not all-loving as we're told he is. If he wants to remove that evil from the world but cannot, then why do we call him all-powerful? In any case, he's not truly God and there's nothing to be frightened of.
▪ “Patience,” Beomus says again.
The sparks dance and careen, a kaleidoscope of detonations. A world waits behind, infinite, colours Mcalister has not seen before, whirling about and warping in more dimensions than he is accustomed, more than should be logically allowed; a place he knows no name for but in some small, innate corner of his mind has always been sure exists.
Meaning is as solid as matter in there, galumphing about in eternity, shining and explicit now.
The universe creates itself from nothing, just for the pleasure of doing so.
History waddles about, drunk.
Logic only sits at the back and holds Her tongue.
The world ends. The world begins. Creatures expire. Creatures endure.
Tautologies populate the sky, bare and self-evident.
The Great Axiom wears four masks to its own party and comes as four guests at once: electromagnetism, gravity, the strong force, and the weak force.
What shall we do now? the Four Forces sing. And what is Space? And what is Truth? And what is Goodness?
Oh hell, Matter replies. What's anything?
Over in the corner, Time takes a look up Her own skirt.
And Mcalister makes out a fragment, blurry at first, then clear as day; the mechanism behind the curtain of Being, beyond all its veils, garments, and classifications: the true purpose of matter and energy.
He tries to compress it in his mind. It won't compress.
He tries to rationalise it in his mind. It is not a rational object.
He lies back in the sand then, takes a deep breath, and begins to laugh hysterically.
“I know,” the cat says. “I know.”
▪ “Sometimes brains are beyond repair.”
▪ A corridor opens up ahead of Jamie, a new space: adulthood or something close, where everything is a grey area and no decision will please everyone, if anyone at all, and each story has some other side to it you hadn't considered before.
▪ Whistle thinks this over. “My parents were academics,” he says.
“I know, I met them.”
“And when I was a kid they used to have lots of people over for dinner. Most of them were famous mathematicians and scientists, but others were total idiots and I could see my parents were just taking pity on them. After they'd gone home, my parents would give me a quick summary of their life story, and it was usually something sad like drugs or divorce or some weird personality flaw they'd never ironed out. So I always wondered how people made such stupid decisions. Didn't they realise what they were doing at the time? I promised myself I'd never end up like those sad cases at the dinner table. Naturally I did anyway.
“But if you think about it long enough, you'll always come around to the same conclusion, I reckon. There's no grand plan and no one's in charge. It's all just fumbling about in the dark, and half the time you're not even sure why you're fumbling. You're so desperate for something to pin your peace of mind to that you'll do all sorts of stupid things in its name. You don't mean to break up a marriage, but if breaking it up might let you sleep like a normal person again, suddenly you start considering it. You don't mean to become a drunk, but if drink is the only way you can keep a handle on some tiny compartment of your life then it's straight for the bottle.”
The wind screams through the rafters. The candle has a little seizure, then settles again.
“And before you know it, you're just another balding idiot with nothing to show for himself but bankruptcy and a few keepsakes. All those sad bastards at my parents' dinner table were good people at some time. Something just got big on them and they folded. It could happen to anyone.”
▪ This is where we part ways. The great tragedy isn't death. It's losing each other across history. You understand that now, don't you? I'd like to see you again.
▪ None of it meant anything, he thinks. Or maybe it did and I was just too stupid to figure it all out. God, I tried but there are so many moving parts. Maybe I'm just a dumb animal staring at a chalkboard covered in some brilliant equation and it's all going right over my head.
He waddles closer to the incinerator.
I hope it all meant something and I was just too stupid to get it, he thinks. I hope it's that, because if it's the other thing then I'd rather not have been born at all.
He thinks of his wife.
You meant something. Everything, I'd say.
▪ Now, the stage set, the players ready,” Rawlings says. “If the doors of perception were cleansed, reality would appear to man as it is. Infinite! A fine platitude, but what did William Blake know, really? Ask a depressive and a lover what the world is made for and you’ll get two conflicting answers. What is the world for? I’ll tell you, if you like. To wither. Isn't that a thing?” He eyes Matilda and John. “Why else be burdened with wanting and wanting and wanting all the time? And guile. And grief. And guilt.”
“I think there’s more to the world than that,” John says soberly.
▪ “I'm sorry,” John says to his daughter. “God, I'm sorry for all of it.”
Zoe smiles like he's just told a brilliant joke. “No one asks to exist,” she says.
▪ “Is that why I've been so miserable all this time? Does it do something to a person, being the child of one of your kind?”
“Nope, life's just unfair in places. Sorry.”
▪ There is a kind of bravery to our condition, I reckon: brought into being without an explanation, in a potentially infinite and apparently dead universe, and expected to just get on with it as though nothing strange is going on. Well it fucking is. And it's all right to have a meltdown about the whole affair from time to time, faced with the pressures of modern existence, trying to be a good human and a good worker and a good son/daughter/parent, trying to be a good citizen, trying to be wise without condescension but uninhibited without recklessness, trying to just muddle through without making any silly decisions, trying to align with the correct political opinions, trying to stay thin, trying to be attractive, trying to be smart, trying to find the ideal partner, trying to stay financially secure, trying to just find some modest corner of meaning and belonging and sanity to go and sit in, and all the while living on the edge of dying forever.
We're all in the same strange boat, grappling with the same strange condition. But it isn't quite so scary if we all do it together. So let's do it together.