Playground

by Richard Powers

He was a creature of scientific rationalism, too moral to suspect what Evie had discovered: eager young girls required camouflage.

There was so much to life, too much, more than Beaulieu could do justice to, more than any living thing could guess at or merit. She loved it all, even humans, for without the miracle of human consciousness, love for such a world would be just one more of a billion unnamed impulses.

Add that to your table of definitions for what it means to be a human being. We make things that we hope will be bigger than us, and then we’re desolate when that’s what they become.

Never again in life would he let perfect be the enemy of good. He had lived that way once, and it almost cost him everything.

We humans are built to compete, built to spout opinions, built to seek prestige and shiny, built to watch our accounts and ratings grow, built to impress our friends and vanquish our enemies. Or maybe we’re just built to play.

For centuries, the island has always hung flowers around the necks of its destroyers.