Goodman Quotes

We are told that people stay in love because of chemistry, or because they remain intrigued with each other, because of many kindnesses, because of luck. But part of it has got to be forgiveness and gratefulness.

I found power in accepting the truth of who I am. It may not be a truth that others can accept, but I cannot live any other way. How would it be to live a lie every minute of your life.

Look into yourself, Darrow, and you’ll realize that you are a good man who will have to do bad things.".... “See. That’s what I don’t get. If I am a good man, then why do I want to do bad things?

There was a saying that a man's true character was revealed in defeat. I thought it was also revealed in victory.

Normal is getting dressed in clothes that you buy for work and driving through traffic in a car that you are still paying for—in order to get to the job you need to pay for the clothes and the car, and the house you leave vacant all day so you can afford to live in it.

Normal is getting dressed in clothes that you buy for work and driving through traffic in a car that you are still paying for - in order to get to the job you need to pay for the clothes and the car, and the house you leave vacant all day so you can afford to live in it.

There’s a trick to the 'graceful exit.' It begins with the vision to recognize when a job, a life stage, or a relationship is over — and let it go. It means leaving what’s over without denying its validity or its past importance to our lives. It involves a sense of future, a belief that every exit line is an entry, that we are moving up, rather than out.

Men were always quick to believe in the madness of women.

We spend January 1st walking through our lives, room by room, drawing up a list of work to be done, cracks to be patched. Maybe this year, to balance the list, we ought to walk through the rooms of our lives...not looking for flaws, but for potential.

Any time your life is at stake and you can't find even one woman to come forward and say, 'This is a good man,' your problem isn't what kind of woman THEY are. Your problem is what kind of men YOU are.

It is part of a good man to do great and noble deeds, though he risk everything.

I have never been especially impressed by the heroics of people convinced they are about to change the world. I am more awed by those who struggle to make one small difference.

History does not care about the suffering of the individual. Only the outcome of their struggles.

It is not often that the real world conjures worse than what we can imagine.

You are wrong when you say there is no power in being a woman. When I think of my mother and the women in my tribe, and the hidden women in the harem, I know there are many types of power in this world...I found power in accepting the truth of who I am. It may not be a truth that others can accept, but I cannot live any other way. How would it be to live a lie every minute of your life? I don't think I could do it.

A man who lifts his chin in pride will fail to see the chasm at his feet.

No good has ever come from feeling guilty, neither intelligence, policy, nor compassion. The guilty do not pay attention to the object but only to themselves, and not even to their own interests, which might make sense, but to their anxieties.

You have seen me at my worst and at my weakest. Let me show you my best.

He grunted. 'You have the courage of a warrior.' I watched him turn away and gather the clothes from the ground. He thought me courageous? But I was terrified - always terrified. 'No,' I said flatly. 'I don't." He paused from stuffing the invaluable robe between two bales. 'Are you frightened now?' I nodded, shame flushing my skin. 'Is it going to stop you?' 'No.' 'That is the courage of a warrior.

I have never heard a lady say 'arse,'" the emperor said mildly. "I haven't been a lady for long," I reminded him. A little demon–made of exhaustion and the emperors smile– pushed me into adding,"For five years I've been saying 'arse.' It's hard to stop saying 'arse' after that many years. I suppose I should stop saying 'arse,' since ladies don't say-" "'Arse'," he finished for me. I met his grin.

If a good man can't sleep after hurting people, then he should learn much more to be a leader.

There is no good on earth; and sin is but a name. Come, devil; for to thee is this world given.

I know that love is about power, too. Who gives, who takes. Who is willing to risk showing their true self.

There was a saying that the strength of a man’s steel was only known under the hammer of circumstance. If anyone had asked me a few hours ago, I would have said that nearly five years of boyhood had hammered me into constant fear and excessive caution. But now I realised it had done the opposite. It had shaped me into someone who stepped forwards and reached for what she wanted. It was too late for me to tuck my hands behind my back and wait like a good woman.

The proper word for me," Robin Goodman says, "is me.

You ask why I smile, Goodman Mennis? Well, the Lord Ruler thinks he has claimed laughter and joy for himself. I'm disinclined to let him do so. This is one battle that doesn't take very much effort to fight.

Writing- the profession in which you stare at a computer screen, stare out the window, type a few words, then curse repeatedly.

Even a cornered rabbit will fight with teeth and claws.

When you are truly genuine, there will invariably be people who do not accept you. And in that case, you must be your own badass self, without apology.

You have less honour than a piece of shit.

Men like you preach change, but I wonder. Is this a battle we can really fight?” “You’re fighting it already, Goodman Mennis. You’re just losing horribly.

I really do think that if for one week in the United States we saw the true face of war, we saw people's limbs sheared off, we saw kids blown apart, for one week, war would be eradicated. Instead, what we see in the U.S. media is the video war game.

These stories seem at times to be stories of a long-lost world when the city of New York was still filled with a river light, when you heard the Benny Goodman quartets from a radio in the corner stationery store, and when almost everybody wore a hat.

Go to where the silence is and say something.

Sometimes there is no good choice. Just the choice that has to be made.

Humor is a universal lanuage.

Depending upon one another's hearts, ye had still hoped that virtue were not all a dream. Now are ye undeceived. Evil is the nature of mankind.

You have far more courage than you think you do.

A young man who doesn't have the foresight to seek out the girl he wants to be with and actively pursue her, doesn't deserve her.

Too many doubts grow in the cracks of silence and separation.

For all those who believe, expect a miracle.

The fiend in his own shape is less hideous than when he rages in the breast of men.

Lots of people like rainbows. Children make wishes on them, artists paint them, dreamers chase them, but the Aquarian is ahead of everybody. He lives on one. What's more, he's taken it apart and examined it, piece by piece, color by color, and he still believes in it. It isn't easy to believe in something after you know what it's really like, but the Aquarian is essentially a realist, even though his address is tomorrow, with a wild-blue-yonder zip code.

The media—stenographers to power.

Kelsier glanced down at his hands and forearms. They still burned sometimes, though he was certain the pain was only in his mind. He looked up at Mennis and smiled. “You ask why I smile, Goodman Mennis? Well, the Lord Ruler thinks he has claimed laughter and joy for himself. I’m disinclined to let him do so. This is one battle that doesn’t take very much effort to fight.

Which of us can say what the gods hold wicked?

And you are the girl's bitch, forever.

How brief and hidden were the moments of destiny.

A cold realisation washed over me. From now on, my master would not always be there to protect and counsel me. 'This is big. Too big,' I said. 'What do I do?' 'You follow your destiny,' Ryoko said. 'As we all do. With honour and courage.

I felt something stir within me. It took a moment to recognise it. Anger.

Cole Goodman was—simply put—gorgeous. He could give a woman a speeding ticket and get a thank-you in return.

The first step to be a good man is this: You must deeply feel the burden of the stones someone else carrying.

[Luke, holding stormtrooper helmet.] Alas, poor stormtrooper, I knew ye not,/ yet have I taken both uniform and life/ From thee. What manner of a man wert thou?/ A man of inf'nite jest or cruelty?/ A man with helpmate and with children too?/ A man who hath his Empire serv'd with pride?/ A man, perhaps, who wish'd for perfect peace?/ What'er thou wert, goodman, thy pardon grant/ Unto the one who took thy place: e'en me.

We are all more–and less–than what we seem.

You lie even to yourself. Now that is the mark of a fool.

Even a leaf in the wind settles sometimes.

Humankind is innocent, loving, and creative, you dig? It's the bureaucracies that create the evil, that make Honor and Community impossible, and it's the kids who really take it in the groin.

..what the next generation will value most is not what we owned, but the evidence of who we were and the tales of how we lived. In the end, it's the family stories that are worth the storage.

How sad, he thought, that desire found new objects but did not abate, that when it came to longing there was no end.

Only a fool would blindly believe everything she was told.

A good man? A man who successfully conceals his evil actions

"The She of the dragon will return and ascend When the cycle of twelve draws to an end..." "The She of the Dragoneye will restore and defend When the Darkforce is mastered with Hua of All Men.

I have learned to have very modest goals for society and myself; things like clean air, green grass, children with bright eyes, not being pushed around, useful work that suits one's abilities, plain tasty food, and occasional satisfying nookie.

You have forced your way into my Hua, Eona. Change me. First, by your power- then, just by who you are.

Few great men could pass personnel.

The reward of the good man is to be allowed to worship in truth.

It takes the black keys and the white keys both, to make perfect harmony.” - Benny Goodman, The King of Swing reply to when he was asked as to why he had an integrated band

Sometimes it's hard to know which qualities really define you, and which ones have been affixed to you by others so many times that you actually begin to believe them and claim them as your own.

I found power in accepting the truth of who I am. It may not be a truth that others can accept, but I cannot live any other way. How would it be to live a lie every minute of your life?

A rude man tells a women to stop talking too much because she is making noise. A polite man will tell this same woman that she looks so beautiful when her lip are closed. Compare and choose one! Speak politely; but be sure you get to where you are going with your words.

Most people do not consider dawn to be an attractive experience--unless they are still up.

We aim at simplicity and hope for truth.

Unfathomable to mere mortals is the lore of fiends.

You can worry about the small stuff, or you can live your life.

Wrong' training can be a very innocent thing. Consider a father who allows his child to read good books. That child may soon cease to watch television or go to the movies, nor will he eventually read Book-of-the-Month Club selections, because they are ludicrous and dull. As a young man, then, he will effectually be excluded from all of Madison Avenue and Hollywood and most of publishing, because what moves him or what he creates is quite irrelevant to what is going on: it is too fine. His father has brought him up as a dodo.

My my Laura Goodman. I must say that is a charming name for a charming young lady." "Eric's old." I broke in. "Really really old." "Er— really?" Laura asked. "Gosh you don't look even out of your thirties." "Tons of face-lifts. He's a surgical addict. I'm trying to get him help." I added defensively when they both gave me strange looks.

Who among us has any conception of the dimensions of shame that will befall us and our children when one day the veil has fallen from our eyes and the most horrible of crimes...reach the light of day?

There’s always that first step in skating, from dry ground to slick ice, when it just seems impossible. Impossible that two thin blades of metal will support you, impossible that because its molecules have begun to dance a little slower water will hold you up.

Slowly he turned into the curve of her palm, cut lip pressed against her skin. She heard two whispered words, felt them kissed into her flesh: amore mio. My love. Two words: the shock of them held her still.

Make it right.

If women can sleep their way to the top, how come they aren't there?

A grave and dark-clad company," quoth Goodman Brown.

I know I’ll always think of you with something like hurt and nostalgia— — from a letter to Ann Davdiow-Goodman, written 1951

Paul Goodman famously wrote, “Suppose you had the revolution you are talking and dreaming about. Suppose your side had won, and you had the kind of society that you wanted. How would you live, you personally, in that society? Start living that way now!

Watching my father plan and strategize for the resistance has taught me about trust.” She leaned forward. “Personal trust is very different from political trust, my lady. The first thrives on faith. The second requires proof, whether it be upfront or covert.” Awkwardly, she patted my hand. “His Majesty has always been a powerful man. Perhaps he has never had to distinguish between the two.

Don't ask any questions and you won't hear any lies.

The central struggle of parenthood is to let our hopes for our children ourweigh our fears

The issue is not whether people are "good enough" for a particular type of society; rather it is a matter of developing the kind of social institutions that are most conducive to expanding the potentialities we have for intelligence, grace, sociability and freedom.

The whole forest was peopled with frightful sounds--the creaking of the trees, the howling of wild beasts, and the yell of Indians; while sometimes the wind tolled like a distant church bell, and sometimes gave a broad roar around the traveler, as if all Nature were laughing him to scorn. But he was himself the chief horror of the scene, and shrank not from its other horrors.

It’s easy to convince yourself of something if you just pretend it’s the truth.

We make versions, and true versions make worlds.

When you live alone, you can be sure that the person who squeezed the toothpaste tube in the middle wasn't committing a hostile act.

I’m scared of things every day. But you have to make a choice: Do you let fear win, or do you go out there and look it in the eye and say, ‘You will not defeat me today’?

The world loves to destroy what it doesn’t understand.

When it was over, Goodman won the popular vote, but John won the decisive Electoral College and the presidency. Gerrymandering played a prominent role in the shocking result.

They say only the good die young, but that’s just a line in a stupid song we used to sing. It isn’t real. It isn’t true. I know that because Shaila Arnold was so many things—brilliant and funny, confident and wild. But honestly? She wasn’t all that good.

...You want to know whether the problems that you teenagers feel—will they follow you over the rest of your lives? Will your hearts always be aching? Is that what you are asking me?” Goodman shifted in discomfort. “Something like that,” he said. “Yes,” said the counselor in a suddenly plangent voice. “Always they will be aching. I wish I could tell you something else, but I wouldn’t be telling the truth. My wise and gentle friends, this is the way it will be from now on.” No one could say anything. “We are so, so fucked,” Jules finally said...

Love and sex with a man is like listening to a soloist. Pleasant, sometimes beautiful and moving. But with a woman.” She was wistful. “It is a symphony of sound and colour. You cannot help be swept up in it.

Once upon a time we were just plain people. But that was before we began having relationships with mechanical systems. Get involved with a machine and sooner or later you are reduced to a factor.

If you control the code, you control the world. This is the future that awaits us.

Low pay generally means harder work under worse conditions.

Why did the boys have the power? Why did they make the rules while we dealt with the consequences?

We shall be useful. But just as importantly we shall be defiant, occasionally ill-mannered, and completely indomitable.

It then becomes necessary to stop short and make a choice: Either/Or. Either one drifts with their absurd system of ideas, believing that this is the human community. Or one dissents totally from their system of ideas and stands as a lonely human being. (But luckily one notices that the others are in the same crisis and making the same choices.)

What the world needs now is liberated men who have the qualities Silverstein cites, men who are 'empathetic and strong, autonomous and connected, responsible to self, to family and friends, to society, and capable of understanding how those responsibilities are, ultimately, inseparable.' Men need feminist thinking. It it the theory that supports their spiritual evolution and their shift away from the patriarchal model. Patriarchy is destroying the well-being of men, taking their lives daily.

No matter what the odds, we can make this lifetime the best it can be. Think of the story about Morris Goodman in the film of The Secret. Morris lay in hospital completely paralyzed, only able to blink his eyes. But he knew he could still use his mind to visualize, and, against all odds, Morris walked.

It is also important to understand that a hidden nature is not always an evil nature

Girls were meant to paint screens, sob out ballads, and play the pianoforte, not see through the masks of polite society. “It

Don't say anything. Just act cool," I whispered. Mavkel started to shiver. "Like this?" it asked. "No, I mean act calm." Mavkel stopped shivering.

The things we hate about ourselves aren't more real than things we like about ourselves.

With Heaven above and Faith below, I will yet stand firm against the Devil!

The future is uncertain and thus holds the possibility of happiness for us all;

If you are afraid of the sunlight, you ain’t a good man!

There is a good life. The goodnews is that you can live that good life. The good life is the happy life. To live this good life, be happy! A truly happy man is a good man.

He was a successful general because he knew men. He knew that all men will go to hell over three things: alcohol, money . . . and sex. This fellow apparently hadn't. Better for him if he had!

People ask every day, "Why was I put on earth?" As if there is perhaps one reason. The truth is that there are too many reasons to count, and each reason and each soul connects to every other,

Where have you been, Theodora?," Mrs Goodman asked. "Walking, Mother." "And whom did you see?" Mrs Goodman flung her grammar like a stone. "I did not see a cat," said Theodora. Mrs Goodman looked at her daughter, who giggled before she left the room.

Holy Shola.

I had heard recently that there were those who thought coffee disturbed a woman’s mind. I always found it rather sharpened mine. Perhaps that was the real objection to it.

A shrieking rise of power rushed into my pathways, rocking me against the wall. Ido's body slammed into mine. He was not going to let go. Not now. The Rat Dragon howled, his heavy blue force driven back by the onslaught of sinuous gold. Raw,rejoicing energy flooded my seven centers of power; opening,pushing, seeking. And behind it all, a presence exulting in the joy of release and reunion. I looked up and finally my mind-sight was clear. I could see the Mirror Dragon. My Dragon.

In the world described by quantum mechanics there is no reality except in the relations between physical systems. It isn’t things that enter into relations but, rather, relations that ground the notion of ‘thing’. The world of quantum mechanics is not a world of objects: it is a world of events. Things are built by the happening of elementary events: as the philosopher Nelson Goodman wrote in the 1950s, in a beautiful phrase, ‘An object is a monotonous process.’ A stone is a vibration of quanta that maintains its structure for a while, just as a marine wave maintains its identity for a while before melting again into the sea.

You cannot take this with you, goodman. The wedding band on your hand is queer enough. The flower is too much." "Give me a petal then," I say. "I thought you would ask for that." He pulls out a necklace. It is the Sigil of Andromedus. My Sigil, I remember. It is golden. He drops it in my hand. "Whisper her name." I do and the Pegasus unfurls like a haemanthus bud. He sets a petal in the center. It closes again. "This is your heart. Then guard it with metal.

Doing the forbidden is a normal function of growth.

If life is hard and we don't celebrate the small accomplishments, what's left?

A musician is a juggler who uses harmonies instead of oranges.

Life isn't fair. It's just fairer than death, that's all.

In journalism, there has always been a tension between getting it first and getting it right.

In his school, Bertrand Russell thought it was better if they had the sex, so they could give their undivided attention to mathematics, which was the main thing.

Civility, it is said, means obeying the unenforceable.

All I will say is my brother’s narrow idea of Christianity seems to bring more suffering into the world than relief.

And you do know the ending of your book.” I looked at her questioningly. “She drives off into the sunset to live exactly how she wants.

Little Red Riding Hood got what she deserved. You don’t go walking in the woods alone if you want to avoid wolves.” I was about to say something in response, but Nicky Ballard did it for me. “You could say that about the wolf, too. If you go around attacking defenseless girls, you can expect payback.

I myself was now an island. Solitary. Brambles and five-petalled flowers were my garden. Rocks my furniture. Ocean waves my lessons. Sadness overwhelmed me and sank back. Then, like the tide, joy crept in on me again.

How could I explain that it was not all playacting? That I felt more of the male spirit within me than the female - a fierceness that whittled me down to a sharpened spear of ambition. And as a boy, I was applauded, not punished, for such raw energy. It was not beaten out of me for my own good, or worn away by women's chores.

Contrary to popular belief, there are no negative emotions. There are only emotions that are harder to experience or that cause more distress for certain people, and the more you suppress those emotions, the harder they are to manage.

I have come to understand that I have offended you with my honest about your power,' he said. 'I am not accustomed-' He paused and rubbed his chin. 'I mean apart from my father, there has been no one whose opinion I was required to consider. And I've never had to'-his finger traced the edge of the pearl-'pursue a woman.' Was the emperor apologizing to me? He took a deep breath. 'I cannot take back those words-we both know they were the truth-but I regret that I caused you hurt.' He reached across and took my hand. 'And they did not take into account the importance I place upon your role as Niaso. Eona, you are the moon balance to my sun.

You told me trees could speak and the only reason one heard silence in the forest was that they had all been born knowing different languages. That night I went into the forest to bury dictionaries under roots, so many books in so many tongues as to insure speech. and now this very moment, the forest seems alive with whispers and murmurs and rumblings of sound wind-rushed into my ears. I do not speak any language that crosses the silence around me but how soothing to know that the yearning and grasping embodied in trees’ convoluted and startling shapes is finally being fulfilled in their wind shouts to each other. Yet we who both speak English and have since we were born are moving ever farther apart even as branch tips touch.

My thought is that the average adjusted boy is, if anything, more humanly wasted than the disaffected. So let us go on to discuss his stupidity, his lack of patriotism, his sexual confusion, and his lack of faith.

You all right?” I ask. “I was used as a bus driver for a spy I’m in love with who I thought rescued me because she thought I was a hero, whose protégé chose to become a tyrant and shoot my best friend’s protégé in the head—whom I find out was the paragon of honor.” He smiles. “I’m over the moon, goodman.” I squeeze his shoulder. “If it counts, I think you’re a hero.” He snorts a laugh but doesn’t throw my hand off. I pat his shoulder. “So I’m your best friend.” He glares at me. “Don’t rub it in.

Humor is a univeral language.

Or perhaps one’s foes always seemed smaller once they had been defeated.

This book is dedicated to all the women out there who no longer have the patience or desire to put up with any nonsense.

The classical anthropological question, What is man?—"how like an angel, this quintessence of dust!"—is not now asked by anthropologists. Instead, they commence with a chapter on Physical Anthropology and then forget the whole topic and go on to Culture.

Not everything you do has to be about improving your health, your knowledge, your job, or your body. It's OK to just be. There's no finish line or trophy for being the most improved.

People often need to accept the reality of a situation before moving forward. Not all situations have a silver lining or a positive spin. Some things are just really, really hard, and that’s OK.

Finally, at age seventy, Goodman was able to get the diagnosis and access to services he needed. Joining a support group for adults run by the Asperger’s Association of New England, he says, was “like coming ashore after a life of bobbing up and down in a sea that seemed to stretch to infinity in all directions.

He gave me a message for you.” She tightened her lips as if the words soured her mouth. “What is it?” “That you are in his blood.” I looked down at the deck to hide the answering surge within my own blood. “Those are the words of a lover, Eona.

We'd growl and snarl until a calm settled in, and after that, we could continue throughout the day, holding hands and skipping around the house, as if nothing had happened at all. As if that's just how sisters act. But it is, though. How sisters act. Brutal and tender and out for blood.

You know I'm no squealer, Harry.' 'You're a rummy. But no matter how rum dumb you get, if you ever talk about that, I promise you.' 'I'm a good man,' he said. 'You oughtn't to talk to me like that.' 'They can't make it fast enough to keep you a good man,' I told him. But I didn't worry about him any more because who was going to believe him?

How could such heat remain when we were not even touching?

did you realize every time you speak a query into Apple’s Siri artificial intelligence agent, your voice recording is analyzed and stored by the company for at least two years?

You get so few opportunities in life to throw a drink. Take them.

No one can ever truly know what is in another man’s heart.

Even without the Grand Reclaimer bond, Helen, you are my heartbeat. My pulse. You are the fire in my blood and the laughter in my soul.

Money doesn’t necessarily make someone happier, but it can lead to more control over one’s life and ultimately less sadness.

What makes you think he is trustworthy?’ ‘ He has a sense of humor,’ I said, and then added the final proof. ‘And he found my observations funny too.

I never knew my mother. She died the night that I was born, and so we passed each other in the dark…

My guardian served as my protector, but I had no one to protect me from him.

Live a life that challenges you, fulfills you, has meaning, and brings you moments of joy. Open yourself to all emotions and experiences. Discover what you value and follow it until the end, knowing that sometimes life is going to hurt and that’s what makes it worth living.

Prophecy is a poetry of change, social, political, moral, spiritual. It was with the prophetic model in mind that Shelley wrote of poets as the unacknowledged legislators of the world.

What makes America unique is not that it built MIT, or that its grads are generating economic growth and innovation, but that every state in the country has universities trying to do the same. “America has 4,000 colleges and universities,” said Allan E. Goodman, president of the Institute of International Education. “The rest of the world combined has 7,768 institutions of higher education.

It is your decision what kind of person you will be, how you will respond to the challenges you face. Keep your promises, forgo your grudges, apologize when necessary, speak your love, and speak it again.

There aren't any dancing girls in Bitter Springs," Finn said. "Leastways not he kind that kick their legs so high in the air you can see..." He leaned forward, looked around Kellen for this brother, and asked, "What do you call it?" "France," Rabbit said. "They kick their legs so high you can see France." Finn nodded. He looked up at Kellen. "You ever seen France?" Kellen sighed feelingly. "Not in a long while.

Many researchers have argued that the use of toxic positivity in healthcare is unethical and even dangerous. It leads to unfounded assertions of confidence, implies a lack of empathy for the patient, and can cause people to make uninformed decisions about their health.

I think that sometimes when you get used to a bad thing -- like being in prison or getting kidnapped by fairies -- it's better to live with that bad thing than trying to change it. Because what if you get to chance to change it and you mess up? What if it's your last chance?

In my work, I’ve noticed that people with invisible illnesses or disabilities are scared of acting too positive because then people won’t believe that they’re sick. They’re afraid of being too negative because then they aren’t being strong or fighting hard enough. They can’t win.

Raven has always been nice in the same way vanilla is nice but you’d rather have cookie dough.

Be patient, do nothing, cease striving. We find this advice disheartening and therefore unfeasible because we forget it is our own inflexible activity that is structuring the reality. We think that if we do not hustle, nothing will happen and we will pine away. But the reality is probably in motion and after a while we might take part in that motion. But one can't know.

Though experience should be our guide . . . and we see mistakes are common at the age of twenty-three, it must be acknowledged that not every youthful feeling begins unworthily and ends in error. If this were the case, mankind would have perished long ago.

Positively, the delinquent behavior seems to speak clearly enough. It asks for what we can’t give, but it is in this direction we must go. It asks for manly opportunities to work, make a little money, and have self-esteem; to have some space to bang around in, that is not always somebody’s property; to have better schools to open for them horizons of interest; to have more and better sex without fear or shame; to share somehow in the symbolic goods (like the cars) that are made so much of; to have a community and a country to be loyal to; to claim attention and have a voice. These are not outlandish demands. Certainly they cannot be satisfied directly in our present system; they are baffling. That is why the problem is baffling, and the final recourse is to a curfew, to ordinances against carrying knives, to threatening the parents, to reformatories with newfangled names, and to 1,100 more police on the street.

Some years ago, after the disappearance of civil rights workers Chaney, Goodman, and Schwirner in Mississippi, some friends of mine were dragging the rivers for their bodies. This one wasn’t Schwirner. This one wasn’t Goodman. This one wasn’t Chaney. Then, as Dave Dennis tells it, “It suddenly struck us—what difference did it make that it wasn’t them? What are these bodies doing in the river?” That was nineteen years ago. The questions has not been answered, and I dare you to go digging in the bayou. —James Baldwin, The Evidence of Things Not Seen, 1985

He chuckled. "I cannot speak for other men, but I want the woman who stumbles over a word like virgin and can say whore without raising a blush." His smile faded and he spoke soberly. "Your soldier… your first love… and every circumstance that followed in some way brought you to me, and while I can wish that you had never had your heart hurt, that you had never suffered even a moment of doubt, of pain, of sadness… of betrayal, I also know that you would in some way be changed. It would have made your life different. Mine also." North gave her hand a light squeeze. "Whether we are shaped by the circumstances of our lives, or by our perceptions of them, I still find I very much admire the shape you have become.

Among the writers he was reading when he wrote these stories in the 1950s—and he was reading all the time, all kinds of books, dozens and dozens of them—were David Riesman, Saul Bellow, Bernard Malamud, John Cheever, James Baldwin, Randall Jarrell, Sigmund Freud, Paul Goodman, William Styron, C. Wright Mills, Martin Buber, George Orwell, Suzanne Langer, F. R. Leavis, David Daiches, Edmund Wilson, Alfred Kazin, Ralph Ellison, Erich Fromm, Joseph Conrad, Dylan Thomas, Sean O’Casey, e. e. cummings—who collectively represented a republic of discourse in which he aspired to

The noted Yale computer science professor Edward Tufte once observed that there are only two industries that refer to their customers as users: computer designers and drug dealers. Importantly, you are equally as likely to recover damages from either of them for the harms their products cause.

There exists yonder in the mountains," said the Bishop, "a tiny community no bigger than that, which I have not seen for three years. They are my good friends, those gentle and honest shepherds. They own one goat out of every thirty that they tend. They make very pretty woollen cords of various colors, and they play the mountain airs on little flutes with six holes. They need to be told of the good God now and then. What would they say to a bishop who was afraid? What would they say if I did not go?" "But the brigands, Monseigneur?" "Hold," said the Bishop, "I must think of that. You are right. I may meet them. They, too, need to be told of the good God." "But, Monseigneur, there is a band of them! A flock of wolves!" "Monsieur le maire, it may be that it is of this very flock of wolves that Jesus has constituted me the shepherd. Who knows the ways of Providence?" "They will rob you, Monseigneur." "I have nothing." "They will kill you." "An old goodman of a priest, who passes along mumbling his prayers? Bah! To what purpose?" "Oh, mon Dieu! what if you should meet them!" "I should beg alms of them for my poor." "Do not go, Monseigneur. In the name of Heaven! You are risking your life!" "Monsieur le maire," said the Bishop, "is that really all? I am not in the world to guard my own life, but to guard souls.

Sometimes, it seems that the problems of two people who love each other are hopeless, the wall that separates them too high to ever surmount. But their problems would all dissolve, simply disappear, if they would only touch hands—or hearts—or minds—or even touch noses—and whisper just one word: “magic!” For love is magic, the secret power all who love possess without realizing it. No matter how great the injury, or how bitter the words, love will erase it all, as if it had never been. But not without the desire and effort to do so on the part of the one who has inflicted the pain—not without the quality of forgiveness on the part of the one who’s been deeply hurt. Desire, effort and forgiveness, intermingled, are necessary to release love’s force and power.

If J. K. Rowling had written Harry Potter in Google Docs instead of Microsoft Word, she would have granted Google the worldwide rights to her work, the right to adapt or dramatize all the Muggles as Google saw fit, to say nothing of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Google would have retained the rights to sell her stories to Hollywood studios and to have them performed on stages around the world, as well as own all the translation rights. Had Rowling written her epic novel in Google Docs, she would have granted Google the rights to her $15 billion Harry Potter empire—all because the ToS say so.

Healthy positivity means making space for both reality and hope. Toxic positivity denies an emotion and forces us to suppress it. When we use toxic positivity, we are telling ourselves and others that this emotion shouldn’t exist, it’s wrong, and if we try just a little bit harder, we can eliminate it entirely.

Our love was unwavering, unflappable, greater than anything presented by the Bible, the Torah, and the Qur'an combined. That is, where we'd go, what would occur, what we lost and gained together, what we suffered and championed through, what we sometimes wished to recall and force ourselves to forget, our lives, the occasions and circumstances, were more than everything, more than forever, more than even the truth.

But the self is precisely the integrator; it is the synthetic unity, as Kant said. It is the artist of life. It is only a small factor in the total organism/environment interaction, but it plays the crucial role of finding and making the meanings that we grow by.

Not speaking and speaking are both human ways of being in the world, and there are kinds and grades of each. There is the dumb silence of slumber or apathy; the sober silence that goes with a solemn animal face; the fertile silence of awareness, pasturing the soul, whence emerge new thoughts; the alive silence of alert perception, ready to say, “This… this…”; the musical silence that accompanies absorbed activity; the silence of listening to another speak, catching the drift and helping him be clear; the noisy silence of resentment and self-recrimination, loud and subvocal speech but sullen to say it; baffled silence; the silence of peaceful accord with other persons or communion with the cosmos.

Perhaps the god whose existence I now questioned would smite me for sitting in his house. A philosophical absurdity—if he did not exist then he could not smite me. In the last month or so I had found it took a great deal more philosophy to doubt than it did to believe.

He has offered to help me, and right now I need his help." "Is it just his help, or are you going because you wish to be with him?" He leaned closer, face fierce. "Do you love him? Is that it?" "You, of all people , have no right to ask me that." "Maybe not, but I ask it anyway. Do you love him?" "Love him?" Helen's voice rose. "Apparently I am not allowed to love in this godforsaken world!" "Apparently neither am I," he said through his clenched teeth. "Yet..." Yet what? His face. his body, were so close. So dangerously close. "Stay," he breathed. She shook her head. He stepped away, the sudden distance between them full of pain.

even though going out for a jog can make you feel alive and whole and powerful, it also leave you vulnerable and alone. But we keep running anyway. Because we have no other choice. We run in spite of this. We run knowing the dangers, knowing who we are and why we could be targeted. But that won't stop us

The world breaks little girls. It stomps out our will, our joy, our curiosity—and replaces them with disdain, cynicism, and the need to fit into neat and tiny boxes. I learned that young, in kindergarten, when the other kids called Stella a show-off for raising her hand during class, or when the boys in first grade said I was bossy for leading a reading circle. When Stella and I would overhear the other moms at the Elite Youth Runner’s Club: The Steckler sisters are just a little much. That’s how we were described while the boys were sprinting around the playground kicking and screaming, breaking and biting. The world doesn’t celebrate girls who take up space, who demand to be heard, who are just a little much.

Shockingly, the Deep Web is a massive five hundred times larger than the surface Web you use and search every day. While the Deep Web contains seventy-five hundred terabytes of information, the Googleable universe contains a paltry nineteen terabytes. According to a study published in Nature, Google captures no more than 16 percent of the surface Web and misses all of the Deep Web. As a result, when you search Google, you are only seeing 0.03 percent (one in three thousand pages) of the information that actually exists and would be available online

In the car inching its way down Fifth Avenue, toward Bergdorf Goodman and this glamorous party, I looked back on my past with a new understanding. This sickness, the “endo-whatever,” had stained so much—my sense of self, my womanhood, my marriage, my ability to be present. I had effectively missed one week of each month every year of my life since I was thirteen, because of the chronic pain and hormonal fluctuations I suffered during my period. I had lain in bed, with heating pads and hot-water bottles, using acupuncture, drinking teas, taking various pain medications and suffering the collateral effects of them. I thought of all the many tests I missed in various classes throughout my education, the school dances, the jobs I knew I couldn’t take as a model, because of the bleeding and bloating as well as the pain (especially the bathing suit and lingerie shoots, which paid the most). How many family occasions was I absent from? How many second or third dates did I not go on? How many times had I not been able to be there for others or for myself? How many of my reactions to stress or emotional strife had been colored through the lens of chronic pain? My sense of self was defined by this handicap. The impediment of expected pain would shackle my days and any plans I made. I did not see my own womanhood as something positive or to be celebrated, but as a curse that I had to constantly make room for and muddle through. Like the scar on my arm, my reproductive system was a liability. The disease, developing part and parcel with my womanhood starting at puberty with my menses, affected my own self-esteem and the way I felt about my body. No one likes to get her period, but when your femininity carries with it such pain and consistent physical and emotional strife, it’s hard not to feel that your body is betraying you. The very relationship you have with yourself and your person is tainted by these ever-present problems. I now finally knew my struggles were due to this condition. I wasn’t high-strung or fickle and I wasn’t overreacting.

Google gets $59 billion, and you get free search and e-mail. A study published by the Wall Street Journal in advance of Facebook’s initial public offering estimated the value of each long-term Facebook user to be $80.95 to the company. Your friendships were worth sixty-two cents each and your profile page $1,800. A business Web page and its associated ad revenue were worth approximately $3.1 million to the social network. Viewed another way, Facebook’s billion-plus users, each dutifully typing in status updates, detailing his biography, and uploading photograph after photograph, have become the largest unpaid workforce in history. As a result of their free labor, Facebook has a market cap of $182 billion, and its founder, Mark Zuckerberg, has a personal net worth of $33 billion. What did you get out of the deal? As the computer scientist Jaron Lanier reminds us, a company such as Instagram—which Facebook bought in 2012—was not valued at $1 billion because its thirteen employees were so “extraordinary. Instead, its value comes from the millions of users who contribute to the network without being paid for it.” Its inventory is personal data—yours and mine—which it sells over and over again to parties unknown around the world. In short, you’re a cheap date.

I do not want to study alchemy, Lord Carlston," she hissed. "It is heretical nonsense. Nor do I want to fight. All you have shown me is a world of danger and threat, and yet you expect to step into it without even asking me if I wish to do so.".........."I am no warrior, sir, nor do I aspire to be. I have been taught to sew and sing and dance, and my duty is to marry, not fight demons. Look at me: I am an Earl's daughter, not a man versed in swords and fisticuffs.

To learn theory by experimenting and doing. To learn belonging by participating and self-rule. Permissiveness in all animal behavior and interpersonal expression. Emphasis on individual differences. Unblocking and training feeling by plastic arts, eurythmics and dramatics. Tolerance of races, classes, and cultures. Group therapy as a means of solidarity, in the staff meeting and community meeting. Taking youth seriously as an age in itself. Community of youth and adults, minimizing 'authority.' Educational use of the actual physical plant (buildings and farms) and the culture of the school community. Emphasis in the curriculum on real problems and wider society, its geography and history, with actual participation in the neighboring community (village or city). Trying for functional interrelation of activities.

It was Dolana, at the salt farm, who first told me about the gaze of men: that look of temporary possession that some men pressed against female flesh. About its dangers and possibilities. It can be used to survive, Dolana had said softly, showing me the power that lay in reflecting a man's desire. And even at twelve years old, the knowledge of it was already in the way I moved my head, my hands, my shoulders. But Dolana had whispered her secrets to a girl. And I had to become a boy. I had to stop being alert to the turn of a man's head towards me. Stop glancing up to meet his gaze in fleeting connection. Stop falsely veiling my eyes from his momentary interest. It was hard to train out of my body, but I practised and learned to cloak myself in the skin and gaze of a boy.

A peach, slightly unbalanced, so that it listed to one side, its hue the color of an early sunrise. Had George remembered their conversation at the party and left the peach for her to eat? Strange. For a moment she thought it might be a trompe l'oeil work of art, some fantastic piece of glass. She leaned over and sniffed. The blooming perfume was unmistakable. She touched it with the tip of her finger. The peach was not quite ripe, but it was real. The next day, she checked the kitchen as soon as she arrived. The peach lay there still, blushing deeper in the window light. She bent to smell, and the perfume was headier then before, a scent of meadows and summers home from school. Still unripe. Was George waiting to eat this beauty?

I often ask, "What do you want to work at? If you have the chance. When you get out of school, college, the service, etc." Some answer right off and tell their definite plans and projects, highly approved by Papa. I'm pleased for them* but it's a bit boring, because they are such squares. Quite a few will, with prompting, come out with astounding stereotyped, conceited fantasies, such as becoming a movie actor when they are "discovered" "like Marlon Brando, but in my own way." Very rarely somebody will, maybe defiantly and defensively, maybe diffidently but proudly, make you know that he knows very well what he is going to do; it is something great; and he is indeed already doing it, which is the real test. The usual answer, perhaps the normal answer, is "I don't know," meaning, "I'm looking; I haven't found the right thing; it's discouraging but not hopeless." But the terrible answer is, "Nothing." The young man doesn't want to do anything. I remember talking to half a dozen young fellows at Van Wagner's Beach outside of Hamilton, Ontario; and all of them had this one thing to say: "Nothing." They didn't believe that what to work at was the kind of thing one wanted. They rather expected that two or three of them would work for the electric company in town, but they couldn't care less, I turned away from the conversation abruptly because of the uncontrollable burning tears in my eyes and constriction in my chest. Not feeling sorry for them, but tears of frank dismay for the waste of our humanity (they were nice kids). And it is out of that incident that many years later I am writing this book.

Psychologists have devised some ingenious ways to help unpack the human "now." Consider how we run those jerky movie frames together into a smooth and continuous stream. This is known as the "phi phenomenon." The essence of phi shows up in experiments in a darkened room where two small spots are briefly lit in quick succession, at slightly separated locations. What the subjects report seeing is not a succession of spots, but a single spot moving continuously back and forth. Typically, the spots are illuminated for 150 milliseconds separated by an interval of fifty milliseconds. Evidently the brain somehow "fills in" the fifty-millisecond gap. Presumably this "hallucination" or embellishment occurs after the event, because until the second light flashes the subject cannot know the light is "supposed" to move. This hints that the human now is not simultaneous with the visual stimulus, but a bit delayed, allowing time for the brain to reconstruct a plausible fiction of what has happened a few milliseconds before. In a fascinating refinement of the experiment, the first spot is colored red, the second green. This clearly presents the brain with a problem. How will it join together the two discontinuous experiences—red spot, green spot—smoothly? By blending the colors seamlessly into one another? Or something else? In fact, subjects report seeing the spot change color abruptly in the middle of the imagined trajectory, and are even able to indicate exactly where using a pointer. This result leaves us wondering how the subject can apparently experience the "correct" color sensation before the green spot lights up. Is it a type of precognition? Commenting on this eerie phenomenon, the philosopher Nelson Goodman wrote suggestively: "The intervening motion is produced retrospectively, built only after the second flash occurs and projected backwards in time." In his book Consciousness Explained , philosopher Daniel Dennett points out that the illusion of color switch cannot actually be created by the brain until after the green spot appears. "But if the second spot is already 'in conscious experience,' wouldn't it be too late to interpose the illusory content between the conscious experience of the red spot and the conscious experience of the green spot?

These groups [of disaffected youth] are not small, and they will grow larger. Certainly they are suffering. Demonstrably they are not getting enough out of our wealth and civilization. They are failing to assimilate much of the culture. As was predictable, most of the authorities and all of the public spokesmen explain it by saying there has been a failure of socialization. They say that the background conditions have interrupted socialization and must be improved. And, not enough effort has been made to guarantee belonging, there must be better bait or punishment. But perhaps there has not been a failure to communicate. Perhaps the social message has been communicated clearly to the young men and is unacceptable. In this book I shall therefore take the opposite tack and ask, 'Socialization to what? to what dominant society and available culture?' And if this question is asked, we must at once ask the other question, 'Is the harmonious organization to which the young are inadequately socialized, perhaps against human nature, or not worthy of human nature, and therefore there is difficulty in growing up?' If this is so, the disaffection of the young is profound and it will not be finally remediable by better techniques of socializing. Instead, there will have to be changes in our society and its culture, so as to meet the appetites and capacities of human nature, in order to grow up.

My title “The Fabrication of Facts,” has the virtue not only of indicating pretty clearly what I am going to discuss but also of irritating those fundamentalists who know very well that facts are found not madder, that facts constitute the one and only real world, and that knowledge consists of believing the facts. These articles of faith so firmly possess most of us, they so bind and blind us, that “fabrication of fact” has a paradoxical sound. “Fabrication” has become a synonym for “falsehood” or “fiction” as contrasted with “truth” or “fact.” Of course, we must distinguish falsehood and fiction from truth and fact; but we cannot, I am sure, do it on ground that fiction is fabricated and fact found. - 91

Now shame is the only direct attack on conceit, the defensive image of oneself. Conceit is the common denominator of the Organization man, the hipster, and the juvenile delinquent-this is why I have been lumping them together. The conceited image of the self is usually not quite conscious, but it is instantly woundable; and people protect it with a conformity to their peers (oneself is superior). But the conceited groups differ in their methods of confirming and enhancing conceit: the juvenile delinquent by surly and mischievous destructiveness of the insulting privileged outgroup; the hipster by making fools of them with token performances; the Organization Man by status and salary. To his inner idol, they sacrifice the ingenuous exhibition and self-expression that could make them great, effective, or loved in the world; but that can also be shamed if it is mistaken, out of place, or disproportionate.

We find, therefore, Lowell and Mailer ostensibly locked in converse. In fact, out of the thousand separate enclaves of their very separate personalities, they sensed quickly that they now shared one enclave to the hilt: their secret detestation of liberal academic parties to accompany worthy causes. Yes, their snobbery was on this mountainous face close to identical—each had a delight in exactly the other kind of party, a posh evil social affair, they even supported a similar vein of vanity (Lowell with considerably more justice) that if they were doomed to be revolutionaries, rebels, dissenters, anarchists, protesters, and general champions of one Left cause or another, they were also, in private, grands conservateurs, and if the truth be told, poor damn émigré princes. They were willing if necessary (probably) to die for the cause—one could hope the cause might finally at the end have an unexpected hint of wit, a touch of the Lord’s last grace—but wit or no, grace or grace failing, it was bitter rue to have to root up one’s occupations of the day, the week, and the weekend and trot down to Washington for idiot mass manifestations which could only drench one in the most ineradicable kind of mucked-up publicity and have for compensation nothing at this party which might be representative of some of the Devil’s better creations. So Robert Lowell and Norman Mailer feigned deep conversation. They turned their heads to one another at the empty table, ignoring the potentially acolytic drinkers at either elbow, they projected their elbows out in fact like flying buttresses or old Republicans, they exuded waves of Interruption Repellent from the posture of their backs, and concentrated on their conversation, for indeed they were the only two men of remotely similar status in the room. (Explanations about the position of Paul Goodman will follow later.)

These young-marrying, contemporaries or juniors of the Beat Generation, have often expressed themselves as follows: "My highest aim in life is to achieve a normal healthy marriage and raise healthy [non-neurotic] children." On the face of it, this remark is preposterous. What was always taken as a usual and advantageous life-condition for work in the world and the service of God, is now regarded as an heroic goal to be striven for. Yet we see that it is a hard goal to achieve against the modern obstacles. Also it is a real goal, with objective problems that a man can work at personally, and take responsibility for, and make decisions about—unlike the interpersonal relations of the corporation, or the routine of the factory job for which the worker couldn't care less. But now, suppose the young man is achieving this goal: he has the wife, the small kids, the suburban home, and the labor-saving domestic devices. How is it that it is the same man who uniformly asserts that he is in a Rat Race? Either the goal does not justify itself, or indeed he is not really achieving it. Perhaps the truth is, if marriage and children are the goal, a man cannot really achieve it. It is not easy to conceive of a strong husband and father who does not justified in his work and independent in the world. Correspondingly, his wife feels justified in the small children, but does she have a man, do the children have a father, if he is running a Rat Race? Into what world do the small children grow up in such a home?

This was no coincidence. The best short stories and the most successful jokes have a lot in common. Each form relies on suggestion and economy. Characters have to be drawn in a few deft strokes. There's generally a setup, a reveal, a reversal, and a release. The structure is delicate. If one element fails, the edifice crumbles. In a novel you might get away with a loose line or two, a saggy paragraph, even a limp chapter. But in the joke and in the short story, the beginning and end are precisely anchored tent poles, and what lies between must pull so taut it twangs. I'm not sure if there is any pattern to these selections. I did not spend a lot of time with those that seemed afraid to tell stories, that handled plot as if it were a hair in the soup, unwelcome and embarrassing. I also tended not to revisit stories that seemed bleak without having earned it, where the emotional notes were false, or where the writing was tricked out or primped up with fashionable devices stressing form over content. I do know that the easiest and the first choices were the stories to which I had a physical response. I read Jennifer Egan's "Out of Body" clenched from head to toe by tension as her suicidal, drug-addled protagonist moves through the Manhattan night toward an unforgivable betrayal. I shed tears over two stories of childhood shadowed by unbearable memory: "The Hare's Mask," by Mark Slouka, with its piercing ending, and Claire Keegan's Irishinflected tale of neglect and rescue, "Foster." Elizabeth McCracken's "Property" also moved me, with its sudden perception shift along the wavering sightlines of loss and grief. Nathan Englander's "Free Fruit for Young Widows" opened with a gasp-inducing act of unexpected violence and evolved into an ethical Rubik's cube. A couple of stories made me laugh: Tom Bissell's "A Bridge Under Water," even as it foreshadows the dissolution of a marriage and probes what religion does for us, and to us; and Richard Powers's "To the Measures Fall," a deftly comic meditation on the uses of literature in the course of a life, and a lifetime. Some stories didn't call forth such a strong immediate response but had instead a lingering resonance. Of these, many dealt with love and its costs, leaving behind indelible images. In Megan Mayhew Bergman's "Housewifely Arts," a bereaved daughter drives miles to visit her dead mother's parrot because she yearns to hear the bird mimic her mother's voice. In Allegra Goodman's "La Vita Nuova," a jilted fiancée lets her art class paint all over her wedding dress. In Ehud Havazelet's spare and tender story, "Gurov in Manhattan," an ailing man and his aging dog must confront life's necessary losses. A complicated, only partly welcome romance blossoms between a Korean woman and her demented