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“Writing is, in effect, the act of verifying the distance between us and the things surrounding us. What we need is not sensitivity but a measuring stick” (from What’s So Bad About Feeling Good?, 1936).
Ascribing meaning to life is a piece of cake compared to actually living it.
Lies are terrible things. One could say that the greatest sins afflicting modern society are the proliferation of lies and silence. We lie through our teeth, then swallow our tongues.
however miserable your situation, there is always something to learn, and that helps me go on living one day at a time.
“He who gives freely shall receive in kind.”
All things pass. None of us can manage to hold on to anything. In that way, we live our lives.
How can those who live in the light of day possibly comprehend the depths of night?
“Suppose someone were to die today—we wouldn’t feel sad,” the quiet young Venusian said. “We loved them with all our hearts while they were alive, so there’s no need for regrets.”
“So you love in anticipation of death?”
The pinball machine and Hitler’s rise share one common trait. Greeted warily when they surfaced at that particular moment in history, their mythic aura stemmed more from the rapid pace of evolution than from any inherent quality. Evolution of the sort that moves forward on three wheels, namely Technology, Capital Investment, and Human Desire.
Almost nothing can be gained from pinball. The only payoff is a numerical substitution for pride. The losses, however, are considerable. You could probably erect bronze statues of every American president (assuming you are willing to include Richard Nixon) with the coins you will lose, while your lost time is irreplaceable. When you are standing before the machine engaged in your solitary act of consumption, another guy is plowing through Proust, while still another guy is doing some heavy petting with his girlfriend while watching True Grit at the local drive-in. They’re the ones who may wind
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The problem was that the face I saw wasn’t my face at all. It was the face of the twenty-four-year-old guy you sometimes sit across from on the train. My face and my soul were lifeless shells, of no significance to anyone. My soul passes someone else’s on the street. Hey, it says. Hey, the other responds. Nothing more. Neither waves. Neither looks back.
“I’ve been around for forty-five,” he said, “and all I know is this. We can learn from anything if we put in the effort. Right down to the most everyday, commonplace thing.
“The obligation of philosophy,” I began, quoting Kant, “is to dispel all illusions borne of misunderstanding…Rest
“Just about anything looks better from a distance.”
“So here’s my conclusion. Whatever changes they go through, whatever progress they make, in the end it’s only a step on the road to decay. Am I wrong?”
“There can be no meaning in what will someday be lost. Passing glory is not true glory at all.”
It seemed as if, all of a sudden, the various rivulets that formed his consciousness, barely holding him together, had headed off in different directions.
