[b]Harlan Coben
What we so admire and call “single minded dedication” was really “obsessive self-involvement”. What in that exactly is admirable?[/b]
My own of course no one understands.
I’d always hated running. Born-again joggers described how they got addicted to the rapture of running, how they achieved a nirvana known as a runner’s high. Right. I’d always firmly believed that–much like the high of auto-asphyxiation–the bliss came more from a lack of oxygen to the brain than any sort of endorphin rush.
Any pathetic runners here?
We know that everything in our lives is complex and gray.
Some clearly more than others.
The pain flooded in again. It was always there, of course. Through the shaking hands and slapping of the backs, the grief stayed by his side, tapping Griffin on the shoulder, whispering in his ear, reminding him that they were partners for life.
Trust him: this is a real thing.
Most people assumed that it would be the opposite—that the victim of such horrific violence would naturally be repulsed by any future bloodshed. But the truth was, the world does not work that way. Violence breeds violence—but not just in the obvious, retaliatory way. The molested child grows up to become the adult molester. The son traumatized by his father abusing his mother is far more likely to one day beat his own wife. Why? Why do we humans never really learn the lessons we are supposed to? What is in our makeup, in fact, that draws us to that which should sicken us?
What say you, Mr. Philosopher?
There was an awkwardness to him, a stoicism that most people, with their need for appearances and fake smiles, found off-putting. Shane couldn’t handle small talk or the excess bullshittery of modern society.
It must be another Shane, he thought.