Spotlight Blind Quotes

As she drove, she surprised herself with a sudden laugh. How blind, infinitely blind, she had been to think that men’s inability to see her forty-eight-year-old self was a regret or, worse, a failing on her own part. No, what it really was was a blessing, for that inability had separated the wheat from the chaff. The spotlight was indeed always there but only for someone perceptive enough, brave enough, mature enough to see it still shining above her head.

One thing is certain: a better world doesn’t start with more empathy. If anything, empathy makes us less forgiving, because the more we identify with victims, the more we generalise about our enemies.37 The bright spotlight we shine on our chosen few makes us blind to the perspective of our adversaries, because everybody else falls outside our view.38

Don't ever smile if you don't want to," she said, and Hannah, half-blinded by the spotlight of Lydia's whole attention, nodded. "Remember that.

You stand fully clothed in a dark room with a spotlight on you. It’s bright but not blinding. So bright, you think the light should warm you. “Will you take off your clothes now, please.” he says from the dark. A calm voice, but definitely a commanding voice. I can imagine when it’s raised it could be, but in all the time he never raised it, the tone was always just right; even when he would say. “Yes, please let me hear you moan now. Louder” It was always pitched just right. Except that one time.

For a long, breathless moment we wait, time spinning into an eternity, while the excitement in my chest bursts. As the red curtain rises, my mother releases my hand and steps forward...Because of the stage lights, my mother's silhouette is all I see as the velvet curtain makes its silent ascent into the darkness. The blinding spotlight looks like a sun rising on the horizon, and though I can't see the people in the audience, the scent of perfume and expensive cigar smoke assures me of their presence, as does the excessively polite, well-bred clapping.

My first life fled without a fight and left nothing behind, so I doubt it was a loss worth mourning. A man I don’t remember mixed genes with a woman I can’t recall, and I was called to the stage. I stumbled through the curtain, squinting into the blinding light of the birth canal, and after a brief and banal performance, I died. This is the arc of the average life—unexamined, unremarked, unremarkable—and it should have ended there. In simpler times, life was a one-act play, and when it was over we took our bows and caught our roses and enjoyed any applause we earned, then the spotlight faded and we shuffled backstage to nibble crackers in the greenroom of eternity.

Without acknowledging the variety of the human experience, all you get is the perspective of majority representation, which is mostly white and male and straight and able-bodied and cisgender and "traditionally" attractive. None of those things are inherently negative... but neither are their alternatives. So, all deserve some spotlight.

One thing is certain: a better world doesn’t start with more empathy. If anything, empathy makes us less forgiving, because the more we identify with victims, the more we generalise about our enemies.37 The bright spotlight we shine on our chosen few makes us blind to the perspective of our adversaries, because everybody else falls outside our view.

Cognitive tunneling and reactive thinking occur when our mental spotlights go from dim to bright in a split second. But if we are constantly telling ourselves stories and creating mental pictures, that beam never fully powers down. It’s always jumping around inside our heads. And, as a result, when it has to flare to life in the real world, we’re not blinded by its glare.

Psychologists call missing information in plain sight inattentional blindness. You believe with confidence your eyes capture everything before them and your memories are recorded versions of those captured images. The truth, though, is you see only a small portion of your environment at any one moment. Your attention is like a spotlight, and only the illuminated portions of the world appear in your perception.

It was a dead hole, smelling of synthetic leather and disinfectant, both of which odors seemed to emanate from the torn scratched material of the seats that lined the three walls. It smelled of the tobacco ashes which had flooded the two standing metal ashtrays. On the chromium lip of one, a cigar butt gleamed wetly like a chewed piece of beef. There was the smell of peanut shells and of the waxy candy wrappers that littered the floor, the smell of old newspapers, dry, inky, smothering and faintly like a urinal, the smell of sweat from armpits and groins and backs and faces, pouring out and drying up in the lifeless air, the smell of clothes—cleaning fluids imbedded in fabric and blooming horribly in the warm sweetish air, picking at the nostrils like thorns—all the exudations of the human flesh, a bouquet of animal being, flowing out, drying up, but leaving a peculiar and ineradicable odor of despair in the room as though chemistry was transformed into spirit, an ascension of a kind, …Light issuing from spotlights in the ceiling was sour and blinding like a sick breath. There was in that room an underlying confusion in the function of the senses. Smell became color, color became smell. Mute started at mute so intently they might have been listening with their eyes, and hearing grew preternaturally acute, yet waited only for the familiar syllables of surnames. Taste died, mouth opened in the negative drowsiness of waiting.

Hand-holding those who don’t share your cultural background to address the needs of people who do, is a tough task. When you are part of a majority or a privileged class, it’s hard to accept that your needs and your perspective are anything but universal. It’s even harder to understand that addressing the needs of the few won’t suddenly marginalize the many. Those “majority needs” and that “privileged perspective” will also be acknowledged and accommodated. That’s fine. They just can’t be the only ones in the spotlight.

People sat at their tables watching her and listening to her, and having opinions about her—free to like or dislike her, to be seduced by her or not, to approve or disapprove of her performance, of her dress, of her bottom. She however was not free. She had to go through with it—to sing, to wiggle. I wondered what she was paid for doing this, and whether it was worth it. Only if you were poor, I decided. The phrase in the spotlight has seemed to me ever since to denote a precise form of humiliation.The spotlight was something you should evidently stay out of, if you could.

But how could empathy steer us wrong? Well, read on. But in brief: Empathy is a spotlight focusing on certain people in the here and now. This makes us care more about them, but it leaves us insensitive to the long-term consequences of our acts and blind as well to the suffering of those we do not or cannot empathize with. Empathy is biased, pushing us in the direction of parochialism and racism. It is shortsighted, motivating actions that might make things better in the short term but lead to tragic results in the future. It is innumerate, favoring the one over the many. It can spark violence; our empathy for those close to us is a powerful force for war and atrocity toward others. It is corrosive in personal relationships; it exhausts the spirit and can diminish the force of kindness and love.

It didn't matter how much he liked being Neil Josten. He'd stayed here too long as it was. Neil should be used to this by now. He'd spent the last eight years on the run, spinning lie after lie to leave a twisted trail behind him. Twenty-two names stood between him and the truth, and he knew what would happen if anyone finally connected the dots. Signing with a college team meant more than standing still. It meant he'd be stepping into a spotlight. [...] The math was simple, but that didn't make this any easier. That contract was a one-way ticket to a future, something Neil could never have, and he wanted it so badly he ached. For a blinding moment he hated himself for ever trying out for Millport's team. He'd known better than to step on a court. [...] But what else was he supposed to do? [...] This was the only thing he had left that was real. Now that he'd had a taste of it again, he didn't know how to walk away from it.

Sometimes the condemning, judging spotlight of the perfectionist gets turned from himself to his relationships. And it is just as stark and unforgiving. He will see others’ blemishes and be blinded to any other, lovable parts of them. He will obsess on fixing the other person to make her right, or he will simply leave the relationship. The perfectionist is often critical of others, though he doesn’t mean to be. Often, he is simply projecting his own deep self-hatred on others and attempting to relieve the pressure a little. Often, the perfectionist feels entitlement—the need to be treated specially, not as another ordinary person. When you are entitled, you may refuse to reach out because the other person doesn’t meet your expectations of “specialness.” Here are some things you might do if you have this bent: You might disqualify a friend before really getting to know her. You might be enormously hurt and disappointed when someone fails you, and withdraw. You might have impossible standards for people to meet. You might become so self-condemning that you avoid connections. You might have a string of failed friendships behind you and simply give up because the failures hurt so much.

Losing My Religion" Oh life, it's bigger It's bigger than you And you are not me The lengths that I will go to The distance in your eyes Oh no, I've said too much I set it up That's me in the corner That's me in the spotlight Losing my religion Trying to keep up with you And I don't know if I can do it Oh no, I've said too much I haven't said enough I thought that I heard you laughing I thought that I heard you sing I think I thought I saw you try Every whisper Of every waking hour I'm choosing my confessions Trying to keep an eye on you Like a hurt, lost and blinded fool, fool Oh no, I've said too much I set it up Consider this Consider this, the hint of the century Consider this, the slip That brought me to my knees, failed What if all these fantasies come Flailing around Now I've said too much I thought that I heard you laughing I thought that I heard you sing I think I thought I saw you try But that was just a dream That was just a dream That's me in the corner That's me in the spotlight Losing my religion Trying to keep up with you And I don't know if I can do it Oh no, I've said too much I haven't said enough I thought that I heard you laughing I thought that I heard you sing I think I thought I saw you try But that was just a dream Try, cry, why try That was just a dream Just a dream Just a dream, dream Time (1991)

People like Darlene who are particularly good at managing their attention tend to share certain characteristics. One is a propensity to create pictures in their minds of what they expect to see. These people tell themselves stories about what’s going on as it occurs. They narrate their own experiences within their heads. They are more likely to answer questions with anecdotes rather than simple responses. They say when they daydream, they’re often imagining future conversations. They visualize their days with more specificity than the rest of us do. Psychologists have a phrase for this kind of habitual forecasting: “creating mental models.” Understanding how people build mental models has become one of the most important topics in cognitive psychology. All people rely on mental models to some degree. We all tell ourselves stories about how the world works, whether we realize we’re doing it or not. But some of us build more robust models than others. We envision the conversations we’re going to have with more specificity, and imagine what we are going to do later that day in greater detail. As a result, we’re better at choosing where to focus and what to ignore. The secret of people like Darlene is that they are in the habit of telling themselves stories all the time. They engage in constant forecasting. They daydream about the future and then, when life clashes with their imagination, their attention gets snagged. That helps explain why Darlene noticed the sick baby. She was in the habit of imagining what the babies in her unit ought to look like. Then, when she glanced over and the bloody Band-Aid, distended belly, and mottled skin didn’t match the image in her mind, the spotlight in her head swung toward the child’s bassinet. Cognitive tunneling and reactive thinking occur when our mental spotlights go from dim to bright in a split second. But if we are constantly telling ourselves stories and creating mental pictures, that beam never fully powers down. It’s always jumping around inside our heads. And, as a result, when it has to flare to life in the real world, we’re not blinded by its glare.

I’ll never forget when my brothers took me out frogging for the very first time. (Frog meat is like a mix between chicken and fish but super tender.) When we would go frogging, we’d leave the house at ten or eleven at night and didn’t come in until daylight. It was late for a little kid. We never caught them by giggin’, which is spearing frogs with a long-handled metal fork. Giggin’ wasn’t dangerous enough, I guess. Instead, a real man grabs the frog with his bare hands, or at least that’s what Jase always says. You go out in a boat and use a powerful spotlight to shine in the frog’s eyes. When the frog is blinded by the light, he freezes, paralyzed. If the spotlight man is good and steady, then you just run up quick in the boat, lean over, and grab the frog on the way by. I was in charge of the ice chest, where we stashed the frogs. When one of my brothers caught a frog, he’d hand him over to me still alive, and I’d stick it in the ice chest. After serving as ice-chest man until about two in the morning, I was worn out and fell asleep right on top of the ice chest.

Our flaws are announced with a chorus of trumpets and a blinding spotlight.

Here was a woman who now knew life unfolded through mystery and metaphor, without explanation, who looked upon her perfect son in front of her, a person she had made with her strongest magic, standing right in a blinding spotlight as if he weren't a miracle, as if he weren't the most impossible thing in the entire world.

A cage is a cage," I told him. "Some of the worst cages don't even have bars." They look like a spotlight on a stage or a beautiful silk dress on a red carpet while dozens of cameras flashed and twinkled. Both could leave you blind to the world beyond their circle and served to remind you that you weren't allowed to leave that circle.

Jealous of Harry’s popularity with the media and William’s preferred status in the Firm, King Charles has been known to turn a blind eye while aides leak details about his sons to the press. Camilla, also guilty of the same practices, caused further damage to the family during her long-running campaign to rehabilitate her own image. A tactical masterstroke, a well-timed leak, can pave the way for a beneficial back-scratching relationship with media confidantes in exchange for favorable treatment while also cutting down competition for the spotlight a rung or two. Long before the release of Spare, it was well known within the tight circle of royal correspondents that Charles eagerly piggybacked on reports of Prince Harry’s teenage drug use by allowing the leak of personal details about his own son to construct a “great dad” narrative that many within the press gladly printed in return.

Once at the table, though, each creator can choose to share their personal observations…whether individualized, or as part of a shared cultural experience. The most important part here is the ability to opt in or opt out of this part of the dialogue, at will. Othering occurs when someone else puts that spotlight on you without your consent.

PITCH BLACK, but a spotlight beamed down on a microphone in the middle of the circus ring. I wheeled Steve to the edge of the spotlight, but left the black sheet over him. Then I walked up to the microphone. ‘Hi, my name is Zombie.’ SILENCE. I didn’t know who I was speaking to. The spotlight was shining so brightly it blinded me, making the audience

I’m saying a scattergun approach will always look good, as long as you put the spotlight on the successes and sweep the failures under the rug.

Turning blind eyes and deaf ears to shit that wasn’t promoted by the media was so damn easy. If it wasn’t shoved down their throats because it served the agenda of someone who was willing to pay to have it in the spotlight, they had no reason to look elsewhere for much more disturbing crap.

SFO may have a modicum of fame, but the spotlight on me is much brighter and blinding. Being with Maximoff, I’ve learned not to let that shit get to me. Don’t fear it. Don’t run away from it. Don’t fight it. Instead I hang onto the bright side and just live every day with him.

Here was a woman who now knew that life unfolded through mystery and metaphor, without explanation, who looked upon her perfect son in front of her, a person she had made with her strongest magic, standing right there in a blinding spotlight as if he weren’t a miracle, as if he weren’t the most impossible thing in the entire world.