Eminem Sad Quotes

Brutality is boring. Over and over, hell night after hell night, the same old dumb, tedious, bestial routine: making men crawl; making men groan, hanging men from the bars; shoving men; slapping men; freezing men in the showers; running men into walls; displaying shackled fathers to their sons and sons to their fathers. And if it turned out that you'd been given the wrong man, when you were done making his life unforgettably small and nasty, you allowed him to be your janitor and pick up the other prisoners' trash. There was always another prisoner, and another. Faceless men under hoods: you stripped them of their clothes, you stripped them of their pride. There wasn't much more you could take away from them, but people are inventive: one night some soldiers took a razor to one of Saddam's former general in Tier 1A and shaved off his eyebrows. He was an old man. "He looked like a grandfather and seemed like a nice guy," Sabrina Harman said, and she had tried to console him, telling him he looked younger and slipping him a few cigarettes. Then she had to make him stand at attention facing a boom box blasting the rapper Eminem, singing about raping his mother, or committing arson, or sneering at suicides, something like that⁠—these were some of the best-selling songs in American history. "Eminem is pretty much torture all in himself, and if one person's getting tortured, everybody is, because that music's horrible," Harman said. The general maintained his bearing against the onslaught of noise. "He looked so sad," Harman said. "I felt so bad for the guy." In fact, she said, "Out of everything I saw, that's the worst." This seems implausible, or at least illogical, until you think about it. The MI block was a place where a dead guy was just a dead guy. And a guy hanging from a window frame or a guy forced to drag his nakedness over a wet concrete floor⁠—well, how could you relate to that, except maybe to take a picture? But a man who kept his chin up while you blasted him with rape anthems, and old man shorn of his eyebrows whose very presence made you think of his grandkids--you could let that get to you, especially if you had to share in his punishment: "Slut, you think I won't choke no whore / til the vocal cords don't work in her throat no more!..." or whatever the song was.

Welcome to my life around February of 2012 as I sat down to write Shift. My novel Wool had somehow become a New York Times bestseller, even though it was still a self-published book with some truly questionable cover art. Ridley Scott had snatched up the film rights. Publishers were offering me hundreds of thousands of dollars to take the book off my hands (the offers would soon reach seven figures). Reviews and fan e-mails were pouring in, asking for more, more, more. I had twenty years of not being able to finish a novel under my belt. I had thirty years of being disappointed with sequels as a reader. At the time, Eminem’s song “Lose Yourself” was popular, and I would jam the song every morning, firing myself up so as not to waste this opportunity. And then I decided to write a book that absolutely no one was asking for. No one except me. A word of advice here: If you love reading, you should really give writing a chance. The blank page can be whatever you want it to be. A sad scene, a happy scene, a love story, a tragedy. It’s all right there. You are in charge. You make the rules. Delight your every fancy. Right your every literary wrong.