Entering for the first time, we saw a room, big and new, that smelled of newness and spare furniture; its most conspicuous feature was a series of brightly colored tiles covering most of the back wall. These followed no pattern my eyes could make out, but I was fascinated by them: it was as though, even then, my heart knew that art itself resides in the stories we imagine as much or more as any story explicitly told.
The earth is primarily comprised of iron, oxygen, love, silicon, magnesium, hope, sulfur, nickel, stubbornness, calcium, aluminum, and whimsy. Needless to say, this list also contains the elements of all good relationships.
The individual is real; abstractions are pointless vanities, save perhaps those of mathematics, which owes its existence to definitions. To theorize about the many is to know no one.
We like our truths best served on a bed of lies. This is the key to advertising, politics, and fiction: knowing that, at the end of the day, we want a comforting story before we can go to sleep.
Autumn, dressed as Summer, stormed into his house and ate his good intentions. Half-starving, he staggered off into the woods (where he thought cooler days might be waiting) only to find a painter who told him, “never look for Fall — just create it.”
Motivation is like gasoline; you really can’t go anywhere without it. But unlike gasoline, which we have to buy, motivation is something we have to make for ourselves, sometimes out of the broken remnants of what used to fuel us.
Sometimes we wonder about things, questions to which there seem to be no answers. That is okay, though: wondering, even when no answers seem forthcoming, is no less useless than eating, knowing we’ll just be hungry again.