“you ask: why is the malady of death fatal? she answers: because whoever has it doesn’t know he’s a carrier, of death. and also because he’s like to die without any life to die to, and without even knowing that’s what he’s doing.”
“your life was a hypothesis. those who die old are made of the past. thinking of them, one thinks of what they have done. thinking of you, one thinks of what you could have become. you were, and you will remain, made up of possibilities. your suicide was the most important thing you ever said, but you’ll never be able to enjoy the fruits of this labor.”
“you are not the kind of guy who would be at a place like this at this time of the morning. but here you are, and you cannot say that the terrain is entirely unfamiliar, although the details are fuzzy. you are at a nightclub talking to a girl with a shaved head.”
“you are about to begin reading italo calvino’s new novel, if on a winter’s night a traveler. relax. concentrate. dispel every other thought. let the world around you fade. best to close the door; the tv is always on in the next room. tell the others right away, “no, i don’t want to watch tv!” raise your voice—they won’t hear you otherwise—“i’m reading! i don’t want to be disturbed!” maybe they haven’t heard you, with all that racket; speak louder, yell: “i’m beginning to read italo calvino’s new novel!” or if you prefer, don’t say anything; just hope they’ll leave you alone.”
“there’s just something about asians that makes reality a little too real, overcomplicates the clarity, the duality, the clean elegance of black and white, the proven template and so the decision is made not in some overarching conspiracy to exclude asians but because it’s just easier to keep it how we have it.”
you are the sun and moon and stars are you.