They put people in prison for taking drugs. They lock kids away for stealing money from gas stations, for joyriding in cars. But men who abandon their children, they float through life, as light as air.
They were glued down, every last one of them. A packet of souls. Was it fate? Misfortune? Is that what glued them down like that? Of course not. Let’s not be stupid. It probably had more to do with the hurled bombs, thrown down by humans hiding in the clouds.
The prelude to very bad things can be ridiculous […] but can also be casual and unremarkable. Which is worth recognizing, since it indicates where many bad events originate: from just an inch away from the everyday.
There are people like that in the world – people with something wrong with them that can be disguised but won’t be denied, and which dominates them.
I love being alive and the art is the evidence of that
Not that I read these kinds of things on purpose, but from what I hear the guy’s had a pretty rough run of life lately. I have been a hardcore Carrey fan since childhood, and man, what a delight to see him paint like this. Watching him channel his pain, hearing him work through the dark to produce this much beauty, is just outstanding.
True story, Word of Honor:
Joseph Heller, an important and funny writer
and I were at a party given by a billionaire
on Shelter Island.
I said, “Joe, how does it make you feel
to know that our host only yesterday
may have made more money
than your novel ‘Catch-22’
has earned in its entire history?”
And Joe said, “I’ve got something he can never have.”
And I said, “What on earth could that be, Joe?”
And Joe said, “The knowledge that I’ve got enough.”
Not bad! Rest in peace!
In a way, I found this book right on time. Atwood’s writing is simply beautiful, and the words themselves are terrifying and uncomfortably familiar.
There were places you didn’t want to walk, precautions you took that had to do with locks on windows and doors, drawing the curtains, leaving on lights. These things you did were like prayers; you did them and you hoped they would save you. And for the most part they did. Or something did; you could tell by the fact that you were still alive.
My favorite part about this novel was a dearth of quoting: nothing is put on record in this haunting book of feelings.
You can wet the rim of a glass and run your finger around the rim and it will make a sound. This is what I feel like: this sound of glass. I feel like the word shatter.
How to describe the moment you finish a dystopian novel and feeling grateful to escape back into a saner time? Ah yes: wishful thinking.
Ignoring isn’t the same as ignorance, you have to work at it.