White Noise

by Don DeLillo

Sometimes I think our love is inexperienced. The question of dying becomes a wise reminder. It cures us of our innocence of the future. Simple things are doomed, or is that a superstition?

We seem to believe it is possible to ward off death by following rules of good grooming.

What we are reluctant to touch often seems the very fabric of our salvation.

May the days be aimless. Let the seasons drift. Do not advance the action according to a plan.

No sense of the irony of human existence, that we are the highest form of life on earth and yet ineffably sad because we know what no other animal knows, that we must die.

“I feel they’re working on the superstitious part of my nature. Every advance is worse than the one before because it makes me more scared.” “Scared of what?” “The sky, the earth, I don’t know.” “The greater the scientific advance, the more primitive the fear.”