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comfort re-read

This book is pure magic

How many times will this book punch me in the gut cuz it’s already too much

“There’s a low-level, specific pain in having to accept that putting up with you requires a certain generosity of spirit in your loved ones.”

Blood Child *****
The Evening and the Morning and the Night *****
Near of Kin ***
Speech Sounds ****

"Is life in the small things, in songs or stories, or is it in the large things, in the country, its laws, in the liberty and safety of others? I feel it cannot be in both. I cannot be in both. I am so weary, Phil, I can hardly sleep but I can hardly get out of bed."

I thought of how the world could can be anything and how sad it is that it's this.

The solider-police were predictably increasing their presence around all Chain-Gang All-Stars events, and many politicians had already appeared before holostreams to implore nonviolence. An absurd thing for the murderous state to plead for, but, as always, the massive violence of the state was "justice," was "law and order," and resistance to perpetual violence was an act of terror.

My throat is so full of love and sorrow that no more words come out. I can't breathe and I know nothing, looking into the heart of the future, the relentless oncoming of death.

There were no more nations, and so no more borders, and so no more immigrants, and so no more arrests or leaders or prisons. No more mass deportations. There were simply pockets of people all over the globe trying to exist alongside one another without a system of power to organize them. Like a new species.

I heard you finally 'found' a few new species of electric eels, that cobalt-blue tarantula, a couple of new river dolphins. I think also a tree that's a hundred feet taller than the tallest tree you thought you knew of. At what point do you rethink your whole idea that these are 'discoveries?' How does that word even have any meaning for you? Something exists just because you finally 'found' it? You 'discovered' it?

I don't know how to talk about what it means to be haunted by other bodies, by family stories, by ancestral sorrow. By other experiences from the past. Maybe all of us carry the voices and bodies of everyone who has come before since the dawn of time. Maybe some of us carry them differently.

Most humans were stupid; the rest of them suffered from a melancholia that was something like an irrational addiction to nostalgia, or so it seemed to him. A decidedly human ailment. They were addicted to dead things.

holy fuck

I have never been much of a short story fan, but HOLY. SHIT. These are amazing.