[b]Jonathan Safran Foer
Mom said, His spirit is there, and that made me really angry. I told her, Dad didn’t have a spirit! He had cells!
His memory is there.
His memory is here, I said, pointing at my head.
Dad had a spirit, she said, like she was rewinding a bit in our conversation.
I told her, He had cells, and now they’re on rooftops, and in the river, and in the lungs of millions of people around New York, who breathe him every time they speak![/b]
No one ever wins these things, do they? Though Dad’s still dead.
Can’t you even tell me if I’m on the right track? Buckminster purred, and Dad shrugged his shoulders again. But if you don’t tell me anything, how can I ever be right? He circled something in an article and said, Another way of looking at it would be, how could you ever be wrong?
Unless of course it’s all just a matter of…perspective?
Only now do I understand the war against boredom, the lost cause of empty hours, of empty days and nights.
Really, am I the only one who has never been bored? Though even I don’t believe that.
I’ve raised my voice at a human only twice in my entire life. Both times at the same human. Put differently: I’ve known only one human in my entire life. Put differently: I’ve allowed only one human to know me.
Put differently. No getting around that, is there?
He was like a book that you could feel good holding, that you could talk about without ever having read, that you could recommend.
Probably written by Nietzsche.
Between any two beings there is a unique, uncrossable distance, an unenterable sanctuary. Sometimes it takes the shape of aloneness. Sometimes it takes the shape of love.
Alternating back and forth more often than not.