Porcelain: A Memoir

by Moby

Happiness in New England had been suspect unless football or alcohol or money was involved.

truth

Thinking of the enormity and complexity of even a single cell made me want to evaporate. One cell in its unspeakable complexity would be worth the worship and awe of the entire universe. And cells were everywhere, their miraculousness diminished only by their ubiquity.

When subjected to even a tiny bit of scrutiny the universe seemed to reveal itself as complicated beyond anything we as humans could ever possibly know. And there it was, the recurring thought: I knew nothing. No. I realized that wasn’t true. I knew that I really wanted pancakes.

Maybe this was the meaning of life: to live in the darkness of Plato’s cave and stare endlessly into the void, but to make pancakes and watch Woody Allen movies and look at the sun coming through the skylights. Those were the comforts not of having true knowledge of the world, but of being a part of it and being amazed by it. I made my pancakes and took them up to the roof, where I ate them under a vast canopy of blue sky. A mile away, I could see city hall and the Twin Towers. A few clouds blew across the sky, casting shadows on the towers. I couldn’t profess my unwavering faith. I couldn’t tell anyone what to believe. But I could sit under a beautiful Manhattan sky with a plate of pancakes.