239 books
—
235 voters
Nats
https://www.goodreads.com/natsgrant
This is the essence of skepticism: How do we know what to believe and what to doubt?


“Sometimes understanding comes to you not through thought, but through this throbbing of the heart, this tenderness in the chest that hurts.”
― The Hidden Girl and Other Stories
― The Hidden Girl and Other Stories
“You are just in the same room with me & my unsweet, uncharming, completely uninteresting sadness. I wish it could unbelong itself from me, unstick from my face.”
― When I Grow Up I Want to Be a List of Further Possibilities
― When I Grow Up I Want to Be a List of Further Possibilities

“Yet “change management,” like “Scottish cuisine” and “man bun,” is an oxymoron.”
― Humanocracy: Creating Organizations as Amazing as the People Inside Them
― Humanocracy: Creating Organizations as Amazing as the People Inside Them

“Maybe the centipede in the cellar
knows with its many disgusting legs
why I am sad. No one else does.”
―
knows with its many disgusting legs
why I am sad. No one else does.”
―

“Because I was reading today
in the science section of the paper that passionate love
lasts only a year, maybe two, if you're lucky.
Because I want to be extra lucky. Because the article
apologized specifically to poets - sorry, you hopeless
saps - as though we automatically believe in love more
than anyone else (more than kindergarten teachers, long-haired
carpenters) & have been pushing this Non-Truth
on everyone. Because who knows what will happen,
but I want to, baby, want to believe it's always possible
to love bigger & madder, even after two, three, four years,
four decades. I want a love as dirty as a snowball fight
in the sludge, under grimy yellow lights. I want this winter
inside my lungs. Inside my brain & dream. I want to eat
the unplowed street & fog that's been erasing
evergreens. I want to eat the fog only to discover
it's some giant's lost silver blanket. I want to
find the giant & return to him his treasure.
I want the journey to be long. & strange, like a map
drawn in snow by our shadows shivering. I want to shiver
against you, into you.”
―
in the science section of the paper that passionate love
lasts only a year, maybe two, if you're lucky.
Because I want to be extra lucky. Because the article
apologized specifically to poets - sorry, you hopeless
saps - as though we automatically believe in love more
than anyone else (more than kindergarten teachers, long-haired
carpenters) & have been pushing this Non-Truth
on everyone. Because who knows what will happen,
but I want to, baby, want to believe it's always possible
to love bigger & madder, even after two, three, four years,
four decades. I want a love as dirty as a snowball fight
in the sludge, under grimy yellow lights. I want this winter
inside my lungs. Inside my brain & dream. I want to eat
the unplowed street & fog that's been erasing
evergreens. I want to eat the fog only to discover
it's some giant's lost silver blanket. I want to
find the giant & return to him his treasure.
I want the journey to be long. & strange, like a map
drawn in snow by our shadows shivering. I want to shiver
against you, into you.”
―

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