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Anyway, so what if he was crazy? What sane person could live in this world and not be crazy?
Nothing will keep a man from dreaming, he had said, but death.
“I don’t know. Things don’t have purposes, as if the universe were a machine, where every part has a useful function. What’s the function of a galaxy? I don’t know if our life has a purpose and I don’t see that it matters. What does matter is that we’re a part. Like a thread in a cloth or a grass-blade in a field. It is and we are. What we do is like wind blowing on the grass.”
On top of pique, umbrage, and ennui. Oh, the French diseases of the soul.
“Brown,” he said gently, standing behind her chair. “Shit color.” “The color of the earth.”
The vaster the power gained, the vaster the appetite for more.
This building could stand up to anything left on Earth, except perhaps Mount Hood. Or a bad dream.
“With a Little Help from My Friends.” “Gift,” it said. “Is it acceptable?”
the whole world as it now is should be on my side, because I dreamed a lot of it up, too. Well, after all, it is on my side. That is, I’m a part of it. Not separate from it. I walk on the ground and the ground’s walked on by me, I breathe the air and change it, I am entirely interconnected with the world.
In bed, they made love. Love doesn’t just sit there, like a stone, it has to be made, like bread; remade all the time, made new. When it was made, they lay in each other’s arms, holding love, asleep.
“Hello, George,” she said. “Hello,” he said, taking her hands. “You are beautiful, beautiful.” How could anybody think this man was sick?
