Dax > Recent Status Updates

And I don't like people who talk about their children (living or dead, but especially when they're young), because they always strike me as somewhat perverse or, even worse, hypocritical: trying to coat in honey and sugar that indigestible and bitter terror that has entered their lives never to leave and that they dare not acknowledge every time they peer over the edge of the abyss of a cradle.

The great crime and unforgivable sin of novels is that of convincing us that our lives have a logic and an order that doesn’t exist.

Know this: ghosts live in books. No house can consider itself really and truly possessed and haunted if it doesn’t have a respectable library to respect, and, on occasion, to terrorize the people who live there with the fact that the horror of everything they’ll never read will always surpass the joy of the great deal they have read.

Wraps up Part I

Not planned on my part at all, but it’s amazing how much Iyer’s book aligns with some of the themes of the other book I am currently reading, Solenoid.

reality- the most fantastical creation of the human mind

Doing a little audio/physical read combo. The reader for the audiobook is awesome.

it was in the clouds, it was in the cards, a communicable disease rolling across America like Noah's killer flood. When you dwell in the rabbit hole, as Boyd did, the rabbit hole is home sweet home, ergo: Off with their heads! Climatologists? Chemists? Off with their tongues! Who needs reality when you have Venom? Who needs history when you can manufacture your own?

History haunts him who does not honour it.

The man who believes that the secrets of the world are forever hidden lives in mystery and fear. Superstition will drag him down. The rain will erode the deeds of his life. But that man who sets himself the task of singling out the thread of order from the tapestry will have taken charge of the world and it is only by such taking charge that he will effect a way to dictate the terms of his own fate.

"The shadows of the smallest stones lay like pencil lines across the sand and the shapes of the men and their mounts advanced elongate before them like strands of the night from which they'd ridden, like tentacles to bind them to the darkness yet to come.

In the hyperstated mortality of Achilles lay the origins of something potentially greater even than epic- and that was tragedy.