Foe Iain Reid Quotes

You can hold beliefs and not always believe in them.

That’s what time does. It ushers a return to equilibrium. Unease becomes ease. A shock, no matter how potent, always wears off with time.

The privilege of being human is that our brains are big enough to decide the fate of other creatures.

Habitual, comfortable activity is the worst kind of prison, because the bars are concealed. You can never learn anything that way.

Why bother taking notice of everything going on around you, filling up your mind with irrelevant details and excess information? What’s going to happen will happen regardless. Awareness is beside the point.

Ordinary is impossible. It’s more realistic to believe that we are all exceptional, that I, too, am singular, unique, that there has never been nor ever will be another me.

Why do people stay together"? They stay together because it's expected, because it's what they know. They try to make it work, to endure it, and end up living under some kind of spiritual anesthetic. They go on, but they are numb. There is nothing worse than to live your life this way. Detached, but abiding. It's immoral.

This is what we desire as humans—security, certainty, affirmation.

You can’t really understand a relationship until you live it, unless you’re in it.

But isn’t it good to scare yourself from time to time? It’s so easy to get stuck in your own narrow rut. We convince ourselves they’re paths to something else, contentment, but really they’re just ruts going on forever.

Good news for someone often means bad news for someone else.

A shock, no matter how potent, always wears off with time.

What came before is hard to remember. Not that I want to. Those times don't matter. Now is what's important, not then.

No, I say. It’s the opposite. Beauty isn’t fleeting. Beauty is eternal. But . . . I’m not. I’m fleeting. That’s more the point.

They stay together because it’s expected, because it’s what they know. They try to make it work, to endure it, and end up living under some kind of spiritual anesthetic. They go on, but they are numb. And the more I think about, the more I think there’s nothing worse than to live your life this way. Detached, but abiding. It’s immoral.

I was the physical embodiment of the numerical mean

I’ve been told these old barns are physical reminders of an older life, when things were different. They need upkeep. They need to be restored. It would be a tragedy if the one in this field is ablaze. Another barn lost.

I've expected you to understand how I'm feeling, and it just doesn't happen. It's so discouraging, draining. It's like as long as we're here, moving from day to day, your convinced that I'm happy. Honestly, I rarely feel happy. I don't want to have to tell you everything. I shouldn't have to. Not if you're paying attention, even just a bit, considering me in a way that's not just superficial. I want my own identity separate from being your wife. It's just how it should be.

Walking is nonverbal communication. Like I can tell if [she's] mad by her footsteps. Walking isn't as overt as other signals, like the way someone smells, their voice, their laugh, their facial expressions. Steps can be frivolous, but they're often distinct from person to person. Familiarity grows over time, slowly, inadvertently. I never tried to get to know her walk deliberately. This stuff happens unwittingly... Living with someone can't be simulated or rehearsed. It has to be experienced, in real time. There is no substitute for shared involvement, for creating actual memories. Like, I know how [she] blows her nose. I've never thought about it until now, but I do. I know the cadence, the rhythm. She does it in the same tempo every time. These observations - her footsteps, how she blows her nose - they're like little secrets.

I can remember we were happy, I say. Happy to have our own house. ‘Can you recall anything specific, like a detail, or is it more a feeling you remember?’ Anybody can remember details if you ask them to, I say, but it doesn’t mean it actually happened that way. I wait for him to make eye contact, which he does. ‘You have a point, Junior,’ he says.’ You’re right.

Habitual, comfortable activity is the worst kind of prison, because the bars are concealed.

Sometimes even good news can prime you psychosomatically. It can play havoc with people mentally. I hope things have been stable.

What’s going to happen will happen regardless. Awareness is beside the point.

Good news for someone often means bad news for someone else

Beauty isn’t fleeting. Beauty is eternal. But… I’m not. I’m fleeting. That’s more the point.

My whole life, I could not remember anyone’s name. Nothing had made a formative impact on me. But right then I thought that might change. If I knew her name, I would remember it. That’s what she did, even before we’d met—she changed things.

/You’ve been presented with a rare opportunity that,at the moment,remains unresolved. But why is the unknown a burden? It doesn’t have to be. It can just as easily be the opposite - a kind of awakening to feel something. I don’t just mean the Installation. Even before that. This is a chance to be taken out of your daily, weekly, monthly, yearly routine, regardless of the final outcome. Again . . . /This is for both of you. It’s a chance to wake up. How many people live day to day in a kind of haze, moving from one thing to the next without ever feeling anything? Being busy without ever being absorbed or excited or renewed? Most people don’t ever think about the full range of achievable existence; they just don’t./

Are some things meant to be, meant to happen? There are some things we can’t explain. Some call it fate. Maybe that’s okay. Maybe we don’t have to know more than that. Maybe the orbit we inhabit is preordained. I’m okay with it even if I don’t really believe in that kind of thing. You can hold beliefs and not always believe in them.

I’ve become more aware of myself. Because of the situation. Now that I’m no I’m leaving, I see things differently. I’ve been aware of little things that I would have missed before. ‘Like what?’ Like seeing the sun shine off the roof of our old barn. I saw that this morning and stood there, looking at it. I found it moving. It was beautiful - it really was. I don’t usually think about if a landscape is beautiful or not, but I couldn’t control this feeling. I saw it and recognized that it was beautiful. But you know what? It made me sad. ‘Sad?’ I can hear him typing. He’s trying to do it quietly, but I can hear. ‘Why?’ I don’t know. I have no idea. ‘Because beauty is fleeting, maybe?’ No, I say. It’s the opposite. Beauty isn’t fleeting. Beauty is eternal. But . . . I’m not. I’m fleeting. That’s more the point. He’s typing stops abruptly. ‘ that’s quite profound. You do seem more self-aware and introspective them when I first arrived. It makes me think of Baudelaire: ‘ I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no melancholy’.

We didn’t even talk that day. Not a word. There was no acknowledgement between us, but I felt a connection. I was on the other side of the road. I was alone. I thought I was alone. Until I saw her. She had no idea of her impact. She was oblivious. That was the power she had over me. Even then. Seeing her made me question what I was doing, what I wanted, what I desired, what I could do. Not just in the moment. But what I had been doing that lead me to this point, why I was there, out in the sun, my hands dirty and sore. My whole life, I could not remember anyone’s name. Nothing had made a formative impact on me. But right then I thought that might change. If I knew her name, I would remember it. That’s what she did, even before we’d met - she’d changed things. There she was, preoccupied, bent down, oblivious, washing her hands in a puddle on the side of the road. I knew she was the one. I was meant for her. I saw her, and right then, my life began.

He’s whispering again. I’m finding it hard to hear, and we’re standing close together. What do you want to ask? ‘If Hen/ was the same as she is now, in every way, but was a bit less physically attractive in one significant way, do you think you would have married her?’ I’m caught off guard by the question, but I don’t want to show that I am, so I don’t hesitate with my answer. Of course, I say. I love Hen. Hen’s my wife. She’ll be with me forever. I’ve always loved he. I’ll always love her. ‘ I know that. I know. I don’t doubt you love her very much. That’s not really what I’m asking, though. Are you sure you would have married her? Committed to her forever? Think about it. Does her appearance not mean anything to you? Is that what you’re saying? That what she looks like is irrelevant?’ It’s such a blonde question. It seems out of line with everything else we talked about. I feel a trickle in sweat slide down my spine. I’m saying, to me, no matter what, she would still be Hen. ‘Would she, though? Would she still be the Hen you fell in love with? What about this: What if she looked exactly as she does right now, but she was a little less intelligent? Would she still be Hen?’ That’s just stupid. It’s a stupid question. Hen is Hen.

I’VE BECOME MORE AWARE OF MYSELF. BECAUSE OF THE SITUATION. NOW THAT I KNOW I’M LEAVING, I SEE THINGS DIFFERENTLY. I’VE BEEN AWARE OF LITTLE THINGS THAT I WOULD HAVE MISSED BEFORE. “LIKE WHAT?” LIKE SEEING THE SUN SHINE OFF THE ROOF OF OUR OLD BARN. I SAW THAT THIS MORNING AND STOOD THERE, LOOKING AT IT. I FOUND IT MOVING. IT WAS BEAUTIFUL—IT REALLY WAS. I DON’T USUALLY THINK ABOUT IF A LANDSCAPE IS BEAUTIFUL OR NOT, BUT I COULDN’T CONTROL THIS FEELING. I SAW IT AND RECOGNIZED THAT IT WAS BEAUTIFUL. BUT YOU KNOW WHAT? IT MADE ME SAD. “SAD?” I CAN HEAR HIM TYPING. HE’S TRYING TO DO IT QUIETLY, BUT I CAN HEAR. “WHY?” I DON’T KNOW. I HAVE NO IDEA. “BECAUSE BEAUTY IS FLEETING, MAYBE?” NO, I SAY. IT’S THE OPPOSITE. BEAUTY ISN’T FLEETING. BEAUTY IS ETERNAL. BUT . . . I’M NOT. I’M FLEETING. THAT’S MORE THE POINT. HIS TYPING STOPS ABRUPTLY. “THAT’S QUITE PROFOUND. YOU DO SEEM MORE SELF-AWARE AND INTROSPECTIVE THAN WHEN I FIRST ARRIVED. IT MAKES ME THINK OF BAUdelaire: ‘I CAN BARELY CONCEIVE OF A TYPE OF BEAUTY IN WHICH THERE IS NO MELANCHOLY.’ 

I can barely conceive of a type of beauty in which there is no melancholy.’ 

Life finds a way of balancing out. This is what we desire as humans—security, certainty, affirmation.

I’m not an observant person. I see what I see, and the rest doesn’t matter. What’s the point? Why bother taking notice of everything going on around you, filling up your mind with irrelevant details and excess information? What’s going to happen will happen regardless. Awareness is beside the point.

There’s nothing in those years before that I wish to think about or dwell on. We get only so much mental space in which to store our memories, and there’s no reason for me to waste it on what came before. I wasn’t myself then. I was someone else, something less, a lesser version of the man I have since become.

Despair is never satisfied on its own. Despair does not want to be alone. Despair wants company.

we sleep so we can forget.

Beauty isn’t fleeting. Beauty is eternal.

Most people don’t get this chance, he said. They don’t appreciate what you are now appreciating, and that means not taking your days for granted. Enjoy the feeling.

I always thought I was ordinary, but that is my own illusion, it seems. Ordinary is impossible. It’s more realistic to believe that we are all exceptional, that I, too, am singular, unique, that there has never been nor ever will be another me.

I’m an individual. I’m unprecedented and unimaginable. I’m impossible.

Memories. More of them. Memories I’d forgotten, or ones I thought I’d forgotten, ones I didn’t even know I had stored away, have been returning.