Even if I wrote a good love poem by accident, the best a good love poem could be was nice, and it wasn’t that I didn’t want to be nice to June, just that… what? Who wouldn’t be nice to her? That was that. I wanted to do something someone else wouldn’t, preferably something that someone else couldn’t. No one thing seemed good enough though.
And than I remembered the clock in the gym. How everyone said it couldn’t be smashed.
“Well, he does! and what of it? I don’t care if he does take bribes,” Razumihin cried with unnatural irritability. “I don’t praise him for taking bribes. I only say he is a nice man in his own way! But if one looks at men in all ways—are there many good ones left?
…so that he could plunge back into his chaos and drag out of it, with all its wet stars, his cosmos.
Who do we take seriously? Only the lethal believer, the person who kills and dies for faith. Everything else is absorbed. The artist is absorbed, the madman in the street is absorbed and processed and incorporated. Give him a dollar, put him in a TV commercial. Only the terrorist stands outside. The culture hasn’t figured out how to assimilate him.
the smell is of old wood, of remote wings empty all this time just reopened to accommodate the rush of souls, of cold plaster where all the rats have died, only their ghosts, still as cave-painting, fixed stubborn and luminous in the walls . . .
…an author is free to mean anything he wishes by the words he employs.
‘There’s a moral force in a sentence when it comes out right.It speaks the writer’s will to live.’