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for the mind and spirit remains 140 Invincible, and vigour soon returns, Though all our glory extinct, and happy state Here swallowed up in endless misery. But what if he our Conqueror (whom I now Of force believe almighty, since no less
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“What was it all for? Furlong wondered. The work and the constant worry. Getting up in the dark and going to the yard, making the deliveries, one after another, the whole day long, then coming home in the dark and trying to wash the black off himself and sitting into a dinner at the table and falling asleep before waking in the dark to meet a version of the same thing, yet again. Might things never change or develop into something else, or new?”
― Small Things Like These
― Small Things Like These
“But just as a toaster used as a doorstop is still a machine designed to toast bread, you – whatever you choose to do with your life – are still a machine designed to propagate your genes. All of us are. It’s what the priests, the sages and philosophers searched for in vain: the ultimate explanation for our existence.”
― The Ape that Understood the Universe: How the Mind and Culture Evolve
― The Ape that Understood the Universe: How the Mind and Culture Evolve
“Maxims & Other Quotes II
Exactly how we deal with our souls was at this moment the only question I thought worth asking. 181
Borges: What I most admire about Whitman is that he created Walt Whitman, an ideal projection not of himself but someone like him, a character every reader could find in his heart and admire. 184
Borges: Mythos, in Greek, is not a story that is false, it’s a story that is more than true. Myth is a tear in the fabric of reality, and immense energies pour through those holy fissures. Our stories, our poems, are rips in these holy fissures, as well, however slight. 193
Borges: Don’t question survival, mine or yours. More powers lie at your disposal than you realize. 194
Parini: I just don’t know enough.
Borges: Nor I. But we all proceed on insufficient knowledge. 195
Borges: I’ve found a name for myself. Borges the Reenactor! The problem is, one never wins old battles. The losses only mount. 250
Borges: Remember that the battle between good and evil persists, and the writer’s work is constantly to reframe the argument, so that readers make the right choices. Never work from vanity. … What does Eliot say? ‘Humility is endless’ … We fail, and we fail again. We pick ourselves up. I’ve done it a thousand times, Guiseppe. Borges only deepens. 251”
― Borges and Me: An Encounter
Exactly how we deal with our souls was at this moment the only question I thought worth asking. 181
Borges: What I most admire about Whitman is that he created Walt Whitman, an ideal projection not of himself but someone like him, a character every reader could find in his heart and admire. 184
Borges: Mythos, in Greek, is not a story that is false, it’s a story that is more than true. Myth is a tear in the fabric of reality, and immense energies pour through those holy fissures. Our stories, our poems, are rips in these holy fissures, as well, however slight. 193
Borges: Don’t question survival, mine or yours. More powers lie at your disposal than you realize. 194
Parini: I just don’t know enough.
Borges: Nor I. But we all proceed on insufficient knowledge. 195
Borges: I’ve found a name for myself. Borges the Reenactor! The problem is, one never wins old battles. The losses only mount. 250
Borges: Remember that the battle between good and evil persists, and the writer’s work is constantly to reframe the argument, so that readers make the right choices. Never work from vanity. … What does Eliot say? ‘Humility is endless’ … We fail, and we fail again. We pick ourselves up. I’ve done it a thousand times, Guiseppe. Borges only deepens. 251”
― Borges and Me: An Encounter
“If there are signs. If, in the next cell an impossible neighbor, because on the other side of the wall are just the cliffs and sea, starts to tap to give you an escape plan with crescents, gears, triangles and crosses. If life is a test of perspicacity, or, what might be one in the same of personality - draw a tree, draw a person. Put these drawings in the order they occurred. Interpret the multicolored butterflies spread over the page. They must appear from where you least expected. Heteroclite and elusive above all, making you doubt not them but yourself. Making you blush before your own paranoia. And making you try to forget it. To return to the pervasive conspiracy of normality.
But the tapping on the wall won’t let you sleep. And the privation of sleep leads to hallucinations and insanity. And in the end, inevitably, to the illusion that you hear tapping on the wall. And all this until the metronome stops. And you have yet to give an answer.”
―
But the tapping on the wall won’t let you sleep. And the privation of sleep leads to hallucinations and insanity. And in the end, inevitably, to the illusion that you hear tapping on the wall. And all this until the metronome stops. And you have yet to give an answer.”
―
“To put it another way: having gone about as high up Hemingway Mountain as I could go, having realized that even at my best I could only ever hope to be an acolyte up there, resolving never again to commit the sin of being imitative, I stumbled back down into the valley and came upon a little shit-hill labeled “Saunders Mountain.”
“Hmm,” I thought. “It’s so little. And it’s a shit-hill.”
Then again, that was my name on it.
This is a big moment for any artist (this moment of combined triumph and disappointment), when we have to decide whether to accept a work of art that we have to admit we weren’t in control of as we made it and of which we’re not entirely sure we approve. It is less, less than we wanted it to be, and yet it’s more, too—it’s small and a bit pathetic, judged against the work of the great masters, but there it is, all ours.
What we have to do at that point, I think, is go over, sheepishly but boldly, and stand on our shit-hill, and hope it will grow.”
― A Swim in a Pond in the Rain
“Hmm,” I thought. “It’s so little. And it’s a shit-hill.”
Then again, that was my name on it.
This is a big moment for any artist (this moment of combined triumph and disappointment), when we have to decide whether to accept a work of art that we have to admit we weren’t in control of as we made it and of which we’re not entirely sure we approve. It is less, less than we wanted it to be, and yet it’s more, too—it’s small and a bit pathetic, judged against the work of the great masters, but there it is, all ours.
What we have to do at that point, I think, is go over, sheepishly but boldly, and stand on our shit-hill, and hope it will grow.”
― A Swim in a Pond in the Rain
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