Tonstant Weader

“There was something distinctly American about it all, a fundamental difference in perspective and place–in how they saw themselves in the world. And this was what made it so American–not that they felt compassion for mistreated workers three continents away, workers they had never seen or known, whose world they could not begin to understand, not that they felt guilty about their privilege, no,no not that either, but that they felt the need to do something. That they felt they had to power to do something about it. That was what made it so American. That they felt they had the power to do something–they assumed they had that power. They had been born with it–the ability to change the world–and had never questioned its existence, an assumption so massive as to remain unseen. The power and the responsibility to protect the people they imagined as powerless. The poor defenseless people of the Third World.

He felts a sudden queasy sadness. What if they knew what a real revolutionary was? How bloody a real revolution. He looked around, suddenly feeling the need to sit, and saw nothing but their faces, their round wet faces staring back at him.

What a violence of spirit not to know the world.”
― Sunil Yapa

“What’s the most basic freedom we have?” Witzbold asked. An earnest expression dominated his face. Zeiger extended a hand and fished another dried plum from the bag. He chewed, reflecting. “To end our lives when we want to,” he said. “Even that can be controlled,” Witzbold said. “No, it’s the freedom to feel what we feel. You’re right in this preface. Infants know only what their parents want them to know. They would remain infants for eternity if they couldn’t self-determine. True existence begins when we can make choices. Feel what we must and think what we may. Men stripped of that are nothing but children, as you say. When was the last time you had your own feelings?”
― Jennifer Hofmann, The Standardization of Demoralization Procedures

“Sometimes when she woke from a flabbergasting dream Liz would lie very still to see if she could net it before it fled; perfectly still, eyes closed, not moving her head, as if the slightest shift would tip the story-bearing liquid, break its fragile meniscus and spill the night’s elusive catch.”
― Helen Simpson, Cockfosters

“I looked young then and my young was audacious. I lay back in those tiny dusty rooms and let the summer dusk unbutton me.”
― Sarah Winman, Tin Man