Wright M Quotes

Right now I’m having amnesia and déjà vu at the same time. I think I’ve forgotten this before.

I'm writing a book. I've got the page numbers done.

Oh no, honey, I'm an angel, I swear. The horns are only there to hold up the halo.

You know how it is when you're reading a book and falling asleep, you're reading, reading... and all of a sudden you notice your eyes are closed? I'm like that all the time.

I'm all in favor of keeping dangerous weapons out of the hands of fools. Let's start with typewriters.

Taryn,” he drawled in an impatient tone, “I am your mate –” And I’m stubborn, if you want absolute obedience, get a Labrador.

Death is easy. To live is the most painful thing I could imagine and I'm weak and no longer willing to fight.

I’m so tired... I was up all night trying to round off infinity.

I'm not tired. I'm just checking my eyelids for holes. It could take a while

Sometimes I talk to myself in languages I'm unfamiliar with... just to screw with my subconscious.

I’m a psychic amnesiac. I know in advance what I’ll forget.

If you are a monster, stand up. If you are a monster, a trickster, a fiend, If you’ve built a steam-powered wishing machine If you have a secret, a dark past, a scheme, If you kidnap maidens or dabble in dreams Come stand by me. If you have been broken, stand up. If you have been broken, abandoned, alone If you have been starving, a creature of bone If you live in a tower, a dungeon, a throne If you weep for wanting, to be held, to be known, Come stand by me. If you are a savage, stand up. If you are a witch, a dark queen, a black knight, If you are a mummer, a pixie, a sprite, If you are a pirate, a tomcat, a wright, If you swear by the moon and you fight the hard fight, Come stand by me. If you are a devil, stand up. If you are a villain, a madman, a beast, If you are a strowler, a prowler, a priest, If you are a dragon come sit at our feast, For we all have stripes, and we all have horns, We all have scales, tails, manes, claws and thorns And here in the dark is where new worlds are born. Come stand by me.

You’re all there is for me, Taryn. I’m broken baby. You know that. Before you… it was like those bits of me were just scattered all over the place. I’ve never felt whole. Not until you. You hold those pieces together. It’s not an exaggeration when I say you hold my sanity in your hands. Without you, I’d fall apart.

My friend has a baby. I’m recording all the noises he makes so later I can ask him what he meant.

I miss you, all right.” “You should. I’m fucking awesome.

Look guys, you might want to think twice before doing this. I’m not an easy target. And I’ve seen CSI. I know how to get rid of the bodies and everything.

I hear the word "tolerance" -- that some people are trying to teach people to be tolerant of gays. I'm not satisfied with that word. I am gay, and I am not seeking to be "tolerated." One tolerates a toothache, rush-hour traffic, an annoying neighbor with a cluttered yard. I am not a negative to be tolerated.

If you can’t hear me, it’s because I’m in parentheses.

I'm a peripheral visionary.

My school colors were clear. We used to say, 'I'm not naked, I'm in the band.

I just think that if someone has a problem with me, well it’s their problem to deal with. Why should I feel bad about it? I’m not responsible for what other people do or don’t feel.

Why are you still smiling? You’re supposed to fear my mighty wrath.” His shoulders shook with silent laughter. “In case you can’t tell, I’m petrified.” “You will be if my mighty wrath is ever unleashed. Stop laughing!

When I turned two I was really anxious, because I'd doubled my age in a year. I thought, if this keeps up, by the time I'm six I'll be ninety.

So I got off the plane and I forget to take off my seat-belt and I’m dragging the plane through the terminal... The wings are knocking people over...

so here i sit. a sum of the parts. about a third way down this wonderful path, so to speak. and i've been thinking lately about a friendship that fell apart with time, with distance, and with the misunderstanding of youth. i'm trying not to confuse sadness with regret. not the easiest thing at times. i dont regret that certain things happened. i understand that perhaps i had a choice in the matter, or perhaps i believe in fate. probably not, but so far actions as small as the quickest glance to events as monumental as death have pushed me slowly along to right here, right now. there was no other way to get here. the meandering and erratic path was actually the straightest of lines. take away a handful of angry words, things once thought of as mistakes or regrets, and i'm suddenly a different person with a different history, a different future. that, i would regret. so here i sit. thinking about a person i once called my best friends. a man who might be full of sadness and regret, who might not give a damn, or who might, just might, remember the future and realize that's where its at.

You know how it is when you’re walking up the stairs, and you get to the top, and you think there’s one more step? I’m like that all the time.

Giving him a slight wave, she turned and strolled away. "Jaime?" he called after her. "Jaime, don't ignore me!" Without breaking stride, she glanced at him over her shoulder. "It's not that I'm ignoring you. I've just lost interest in the conversation.

You’re still not fearing my mighty wrath.” “I’m trying.” “One day I will unleash it and you will flee in terror. Why are you laughing? It’s only the truth. A sphinx in full-on berserker-mode can wreak major destruction and instill fear into the hearts of all who… stop laughing!

When I get real bored, I like to drive downtown and get a great parking spot, then sit in my car and count how many people ask if I'm leaving.

Mrs. Lynde says Mrs. Wrights grandfather stole a sheep but Marilla says we mustent speak ill of the dead. Why mustent we, Anne? I want to know. It's pretty safe ain't it?

Dante doesn't go easy. It’s tough.” “And I can’t do it because, what? Because I’m a female? I’ll have you know that there are plenty of things women can do that men can’t.” Tao snickered. “Like what?” “Well, bend over in prison, for one. Multitask, ask for directions, belly flop with dignity, bleed for five days every month yet not die—” “Have multiple orgasms,” offered Dominic.

No, I’m done! I’m tired, I’m sweaty, I’m in agony, and why do I feel like I need to shit?” “It’s totally natural to feel that way,” said Grace in a placatory, calming voice. “Some women even have one during labor.” “What?” The word dripped with horror. “Women can shit when they’re in labor? Tell me that won’t happen to me! Don’t you let me shit, Grace!

Right now I'm having amnesia and deja vu at the same time. I think I've forgotten this before.

Shaya’s chasing Nick with her shotgun—and I’m not even kidding. I believe the last words she said to him before we left were, ‘Run, Alpha-boy.

You’re not a bad person,” she told him, knowing where his thoughts had taken him. “I’m not saying you’re perfect. You’re cocky and a know-it-all and you’re addicted to working. But you’ve got a nice big dick and great bedroom skills, so I’m willing to overlook all that.

You’re not supposed to smile at me like I’m a little kitten that stupidly thinks it’s a jungle cat.

I’m thinking that I’d like to fuck that mouth of yours.” “Sorry. I was raised to never put small objects in my mouth or I might choke.” Cockeye

Look, I might biologically be a sphinx, but I’m an imp in every other way that counts. That means I’m unmanageable, stubborn, secretive, I don’t like rules, and I make people tired and irritated – and I take pride in it.

He dropped his forehead to hers. “I know I’m a little fucked up. Don’t give up on me baby. I’m not saying that things will suddenly be perfect. I’m a guy, and guys can be stupid. I admit I need the room to mess up a little. I can’t promise I won’t piss you off again, but I can promise you that I’ll never deliberately hurt you. Nothing is more important to me than you. Nothing.

I’m not who fate gave you.” “You think I give a fuck about fate? I make my own decisions. I choose my own path. I choose you.

You know how it is when you go to be the subject of a psychology experiment and nobody else shows up and you think maybe that's part of the experiment? I'm like that all the time.

I'm writing a book. I've got the page numbers done. Steven Wright

I read a lot of books. Here are the books I'm using for my 9/11 project. [Wright gestures to three six-foot-long shelves of books.] As I read them I highlight certain passages. Then I have an assistant write down each quote on an index card and note where it came from.

And I’m stubborn, if you want absolute obedience, get a Labrador.

You should have called me immediately.” “No, she should have called me straight away. “I’m her Alpha, and her brother.” Marcus glanced at Nick curiously. “You say that like you’re more important than me. I’m confused.

I'm not a child," Eliza argued with the closed double doors. "I'm a grown woman. With accomplishments and bosoms and everything.

You matter. So much that you’re a vulnerability, a weakness. But I’m keeping you.” Knox framed her face with his hands. “Nothing is more important to me than you.

I'm the dick that killed Cassie Lynn Wright.

You’re a very strong personality, Harper. You would only be attracted to someone who’s either stronger or equally strong.” It pissed her off that he’d read her so easily. “And you think you’re stronger, don’t you?” “What I think is that when I’m deep inside you, neither of us will care.

I’m assuming Mona did something I need to know about. Tell me.” Be a tattletale who whined to people’s Primes? “No.” “No?” Knox echoed with disbelief. Evidently, he wasn’t denied things often. Well, Harper did like to introduce people to new experiences. It was more of a calling, really.

EPITAPH Now I'm not the brightest knife in the drawer, but I know a couple things about this life: poverty silence, impermanence discipline and mystery The world is not illusory, we are From crimson thread to toe tag If you are not disturbed there is something seriously wrong with you, I'm sorry And I know who I am I'll be a voice coming from nowhere, inside-- be glad for me.

It’s really not my authority that you need to worry about. It’s the fact that I’m a homicidal bitch who’s balancing on the knife-edge of ‘insane’.” “Balancing?” snickered Jared. “All right, maybe I fell off the edge some time ago.” She shrugged. “It makes life more interesting.

I'm not afraid of heights, I'm afraid of widths.

You’re good at ignoring people, aren’t you, Gwen?” “Dude, I’m so good at it, I can make people doubt that they’re actually alive.

I’m not shouting at him, angel, I’m just helping him hear.

I’ve apologized for that a million times.” He inhaled deeply. “I miss you, all right.” “You should. I’m fucking awesome.

I'm an angel. The horns are only there to hold up the halo.

You’d better have a damn good platonic reason why you’re in my sister’s apartment.” “Really? I’m devastated that I can’t provide you with one.

Me, personally, I tell dude 137 how I'm adding an embossed slogan to my dildos. Cast in high-relief going around the base, it's going to say, "The Dick That Killed Cassie Wright..." On the thickest part, so if you twist it the letters of the writing stimulate the clit.

You love me?” He smiled. “Fuck yeah.” “I'm glad, because it's rare for one-sided relationships to work out well.” His smile widened. “Is that your very poor way of telling me you love me?” “It was pretty poor, wasn't it?

There’s no way that we’ll manage to keep quiet. The mansion is packed full of people and I’m not sure if the walls are vampire-soundproof.” He began slithering down my body. “Then don’t forget to comment on how big my dick is.

Don’t misunderstand me. The terrorist actions of Al-Qaeda were and are unmitigatedly evil. But the astonishing naivety which decreed that America as a whole was a pure, innocent victim, so that the world could be neatly divided up into evil people (particularly Arabs) and good people (particularly Americans and Israelis), and that the latter had a responsibility now to punish the former, is a large-scale example of what I’m talking about - just as it is immature and naive to suggest the mirror image of this view, namely that the western world is guilty in all respects and that all protestors and terrorists are therefore completely justified in what they do. In the same way, to suggest that all who possess guns should be locked up, or (the American mirror-image of this view) that everyone should carry guns so that good people can shoot bad ones before they can get up to their tricks, is simply a failure to think into the depths of what’s going on.

It’s the first time I’ve been rendered speechless by a cock that I wasn’t choking on,” I sputter out.

Let’s talk about why I’m naked and you’re not.

He turned his glare on Roni. “I’m now known on a global scale as a gay, submissive, kinky, mated male recovering from an STD!” Roni tilted her head. “If you’re looking for remorse, you can find it in the dictionary somewhere between rectum and runt.

P.S." I close my eyes and see a seagull in the desert, high, against unbearably blue sky. There is hope in the past. I’m writing to you all the time, I am writing with both hands, day and night.

First I’m going to play with these gorgeous tits here, suck on these pretty little nipples. Then I’m going to fuck you with my fingers and my tongue until you come in my mouth. Only then will I slide my cock inside you. It’s not going to be slow and gentle, Sam. I’m going to fuck you hard and fast until you come so hard you scream. And do you know what you’ll scream? My name.

She said, “Look me right in the eye, and tell me you don’t love me, and I’ll go.” He stared at her. “Miss, I do not love you.” “Don’t give me that rot! I’m coming with you, and that’s final!” “Daphne, you just said that if I said…” “That doesn’t count! I said look me right in the eye! You were staring at my nose!

I'm writing a book. I'm almost finished. I numbered the pages. Now all I have to do is fill them in.

Totally straight-faced, Ally replied, “Sorry, I don’t take orders unless I’m naked.

I’m not stubborn, I’m tenacious – it’s a gift and a curse.

Suddenly Dominic’s expression turned impish, and she knew one of his cheesy lines was coming. He cocked his head at Ivy. “Screw me if I’m wrong, but haven’t we met before?

Don’t interrupt me while I’m ignoring you—that’s just rude.

(Fun fact: you can’t kill someone by finely grinding up glass and mixing it in their food. Either they’d be able to detect it, or it would be too finely ground to kill them. I’m too smart for you, potential murderers who are after my history-book-writing fortune.)

I can’t talk. I’m introverting right now.

Riley closed her eyes. “I’m getting that déjà poo feeling.” “Déjà poo?” Tao echoed. “The feeling that I’ve heard all this bullshit before.

I’m your favorite nightmare and your worst dream all in one. I’m everything you shouldn’t want. And you’re everything I need.

I’m not Prince Charming. I’m the bad guy that sneaks into the castle when Prince Charming is off singing songs in the woods. I’m the one with the big cock that bends needy Cinderella over. And I’m the one that makes her scream until her throat’s raw and she can’t sing a note.

He leaned down, lapped at her tears with his tongue. "I won't take you, make you come until you tell me you belong to me because otherwise I'm just the Breeding Male again. Don't you understand that?" Her eyes locked with his. "Don't you understand that I love you. Me. Not "it"-me." Her body was on fire, her mind gone, but her unbeating heart could only call out, cry out to the one it had no right to claim. Lucian Roman. "Damn it! I love you too, you bastard.

The desire to make art begins early. Among the very young this is encouraged (or at least indulged as harmless) but the push toward a 'serious' education soon exacts a heavy toll on dreams and fantasies....Yet for some the desire persists, and sooner or later must be addressed. And with good reason: your desire to make art -- beautiful or meaningful or emotive art -- is integral to your sense of who you are. Life and Art, once entwined, can quickly become inseparable; at age ninety Frank Lloyd Wright was still designing, Imogen Cunningham still photographing, Stravinsky still composing, Picasso still painting. But if making art gives substance to your sense of self, the corresponding fear is that you're not up to the task -- that you can't do it, or can't do it well, or can't do it again; or that you're not a real artist, or not a good artist, or have no talent, or have nothing to say. The line between the artist and his/her work is a fine one at best, and for the artist it feels (quite naturally) like there is no such line. Making art can feel dangerous and revealing. Making art is dangerous and revealing. Making art precipitates self-doubt, stirring deep waters that lay between what you know you should be, and what you fear you might be. For many people, that alone is enough to prevent their ever getting started at all -- and for those who do, trouble isn't long in coming. Doubts, in fact, soon rise in swarms: "I am not an artist -- I am a phony. I have nothing worth saying. I'm not sure what I'm doing. Other people are better than I am. I'm only a [student/physicist/mother/whatever]. I've never had a real exhibit. No one understands my work. No one likes my work. I'm no good. Yet viewed objectively, these fears obviously have less to do with art than they do with the artist. And even less to do with the individual artworks. After all, in making art you bring your highest skills to bear upon the materials and ideas you most care about. Art is a high calling -- fears are coincidental. Coincidental, sneaky and disruptive, we might add, disguising themselves variously as laziness, resistance to deadlines, irritation with materials or surroundings, distraction over the achievements of others -- indeed anything that keeps you from giving your work your best shot. What separates artists from ex-artists is that those who challenge their fears, continue; those who don't, quit. Each step in the artmaking process puts that issue to the test.

Families were bunk, temporary and uneasy alliances of strangers who would hate each other less without the coercion of blood, the spiraling bonds of genetic ivy holding its victims fast to a blasted tree.

Or could it be that you’ve come to care for me, carry me in your heart—unexpectedly, irrevocably. The way I’ve come to care for you.” His hands ran up and down her arms. “I want to ask you this, Eliza. I want to ask if you could love me. But I’m not sure I’ll like your answer, so I think I’ll kiss you instead.

As far as I’m concerned, you’re mine. I marked you and I staked a claim on you, and I wouldn’t do either of those things lightly. If you do come across your mate and recognise him, you’d better hope to God for his sake that he’s stronger than me sweetheart, or he’s dead. I’ll kill him before I let him take you.

Just because you’re, like, super powerful doesn’t mean people shouldn’t defend you.” But he was looking at her like she was a cute harmless little bunny that was obviously on drugs. She sighed. “You’re still not fearing my mighty wrath.” “I’m trying.” “One day I will unleash it and you will flee in terror. Why are you laughing? It’s only the truth. A sphinx in full-on berserker-mode can wreak major destruction and instill fear into the hearts of all who… stop laughing!

You’re my mate. I’m naturally going to want to know everything about you.” He shrugged; it was simple. “That includes your address, where you work, and your cell number—just thought you should know so you won’t be surprised if a text message from me arrives.” She gaped, both offended and shocked. “You can’t just pry into people’s lives like that and find out all their personal details. And how did you find them out anyway?” He shrugged again. “I have contacts in the right places.” “So, what, you’re a stalker now?” “I prefer the term ‘intense investigator.

I tell Ki that I'm learning about words and stories to help our family. He says he's protecting our family with his knife. Who is right? Which is best, protecting with words or with his knife?" She is instant, certain, and solemn, and there is no misunderstanding her meaning. "Fight ignorance with words. Fight evil with your knife. Tell you husband, Ki, that he is right.

I’d never purposely hurt you. Never. I’m a man, which means I’ll fuck up. Regularly. I’m not good with words, I spout crap when I’m angry, and I’m about as romantic as a pebble. But…See, I’m not good with words. All I can say is you’re important to me in a way I can’t explain or understand. More important to me than anything else.

Your brother’s going to tell you that I’m not good for you.” Taken aback by the comment, she blinked him. He discreetly nodded toward Nick. If that scowl was anything to go by…”Yep.” “He thinks I’m a slut.” “Yep.” “He’s going to confront me about it at some point, order me to stay away from you.” “Yep.” “But I won’t.” Marcus held her gaze, not wanting her to miss the determination in his eyes. “Just thought you should know.

In my utopia, human solidarity would be seen not as a fact to be recognised by clearing away "prejudice" or burrowing down to previously hidden depths but, rather, as a goal to be achieved. It is to be achieved not by inquiry but by imagination, the imaginative ability to see strange people as fellow sufferers. Solidarity is not discovered by reflection but created. It is created by increasing our sensitivity to the particular details of the pain and humiliation of other, unfamiliar sorts of people. Such increased sensitivity makes it more difficult to marginalise people different from ourselves by thinking, "They do not feel as 'we' would," or "There must always be suffering, so why not let 'them' suffer?" This process of coming to see other human beings as "one of us" rather than as "them" is a matter of detailed description of what unfamiliar people are like and of redescription of what we ourselves are like. This is a task not for theory but for genres such as ethnography, the journalist's report, the comic book, the docudrama, and, especially, the novel. Fiction like that of Dickens, Olive Schreiner, or Richard Wright give us the details about kinds of suffering being endured by people to whom we had previously not attended. Fiction like that of Choderlos de Laclos, Henry James, or Nabokov gives us the details about what sorts of cruelty we ourselves are capable of, and thereby lets us redescribe ourselves. That is why the novel, the movie, and the TV program have, gradually but steadily, replaced the sermon and the treatise as the principal vehicles of moral change and progress.

I'm sorry but it’s just so…wow. Aren't you even a little bit excited? I mean come on, Jaxxon, you've had enough celebs flirting with you like crazy and haven’t even blushed.” “Anna, they’re just people. Same as you and me. Just because I get to occasionally see them on the big platinum box in my apartment doesn't mean they deserve to be worshipped like gods. Granted, most of them have worked hard to get where they are but so do plenty of other people and just because their job doesn't get them on the big box doesn't mean they’re worth any less than anyone here, does it?

I’ve never had someone as deeply enmeshed in my life as you are, Harper. Never wanted anyone to be. I don’t have any real experience with emotional intimacy, which means I’m often flying blind here. Not being good at something pisses me off. But you … you’re something I need. I absolutely refuse to live a life that doesn’t have you in it.

Head tilted, Lou looked at her curiously. “Are you… are you trying to appeal to my conscience?” He snorted. “That inner voice gave up on me a long time ago. Honestly, trying to make me feel bad is more pointless than the ‘ay’ in ‘okay’. If self-centeredness could bounce, I’d be in orbit. And wouldn’t that be fun?” Harper sighed. “At least you’re honest about it.” “My shrink says I shouldn’t hold things in or pretend to be what I’m not. He says I should just be myself.” “Yeah, that was bad advice.” “And yet, I have a fan club,” Lou said smugly. “Several.” “You mean you have Satanic cults that worship you.” “Yeah,” he muttered, seemingly unimpressed by them.

I feel sort of… calm when you’re with me. And I think about you constantly when you’re not … I trust you, and I want you to have everything you want, even those goddamn cushions. And I feel… good. But vulnerable, because you know me better than anyone. And I feel panic. Because whenever I stop to think about just how much you could hurt me, I’m suddenly fucking terrified. It’s like a physical hurt. An ache. I know that losing you would hurt worse than anything. And it scares me how much I’ve come to need you just to be okay, and just how much you – this one little person – is important to me.” I had to swallow past a lump in my throat. “That’s love, Salem.” “Then I guess I love you

I'm keeping you, Ally Marshall." And she'd just have to accept it, because he wouldn't let her go "You're mine." Startled and spooked by that very sincere announcement that almost sounded....binding, Ally didn't speak for a moment. "Yours?" "All mine. You got under my skin, became my obsession. There's no going back." She swallowed nervously. "What do you want from me?" "Everything you have to give. And I'll get it.

Most Western Christians—and most Western non-Christians, for that matter—in fact suppose that Christianity was committed to at least a soft version of Plato’s position. A good many Christian hymns and poems wander off unthinkingly in the direction of Gnosticism. The “just passing through” spirituality (as in the spiritual “This world is not my home, / I’m just a’passin’ through”), though it has some affinities with classical Christianity, encourages precisely a Gnostic attitude: the created world is at best irrelevant, at worst a dark, evil, gloomy place, and we immortal souls, who existed originally in a different sphere, are looking forward to returning to it as soon as we’re allowed to. A massive assumption has been made in Western Christianity that the purpose of being a Christian is simply, or at least mainly, to “go to heaven when you die,” and texts that don’t say that but that mention heaven are read as if they did say it, and texts that say the opposite, like Romans 8:18–25 and Revelation 21–22, are simply screened out as if they didn’t exist.13

Sometimes I think Earth has got to be the insane asylum of the universe. . . and I'm here by computer error. At sixty-eight, I hope I've gained some wisdom in the past fourteen lustrums and it’s obligatory to speak plain and true about the conclusions I've come to; now that I have been educated to believe by such mentors as Wells, Stapledon, Heinlein, van Vogt, Clarke, Pohl, (S. Fowler) Wright, Orwell, Taine, Temple, Gernsback, Campbell and other seminal influences in scientifiction, I regret the lack of any female writers but only Radclyffe Hall opened my eyes outside sci-fi. I was a secular humanist before I knew the term. I have not believed in God since childhood's end. I believe a belief in any deity is adolescent, shameful and dangerous. How would you feel, surrounded by billions of human beings taking Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the tooth fairy and the stork seriously, and capable of shaming, maiming or murdering in their name? I am embarrassed to live in a world retaining any faith in church, prayer or a celestial creator. I do not believe in Heaven, Hell or a Hereafter; in angels, demons, ghosts, goblins, the Devil, vampires, ghouls, zombies, witches, warlocks, UFOs or other delusions; and in very few mundane individuals--politicians, lawyers, judges, priests, militarists, censors and just plain people. I respect the individual's right to abortion, suicide and euthanasia. I support birth control. I wish to Good that society were rid of smoking, drinking and drugs. My hope for humanity - and I think sensible science fiction has a beneficial influence in this direction - is that one day everyone born will be whole in body and brain, will live a long life free from physical and emotional pain, will participate in a fulfilling way in their contribution to existence, will enjoy true love and friendship, will pity us 20th century barbarians who lived and died in an atrocious, anachronistic atmosphere of arson, rape, robbery, kidnapping, child abuse, insanity, murder, terrorism, war, smog, pollution, starvation and the other negative “norms” of our current civilization. I have devoted my life to amassing over a quarter million pieces of sf and fantasy as a present to posterity and I hope to be remembered as an altruist who would have been an accepted citizen of Utopia.

The most we can hope for when we write anything is dazzling imperfection. The least we can hope for is accolades from one or two people who don't know us. Spending all afternoon on "the right word" is probably foolish (though I've done it many times), but then again, it may not be. There may be people out there who'll read that nearly-perfect sentence (or paragraph), with its "right word," and they'll nod and smile and say to themselves, "Hey, that's not too bad.

One of my great wishes is that people of the present will see those of the past as friendly (or irritating) acquaintances they can look to for advice. It’s easy to forget that people from the past weren’t the two-dimensional black-and-white photos or line drawings you might encounter in some dry textbooks. They weren’t just gray-faced guys in top hats. They were living, breathing, joking, burping people, who could be happy or sad, funny or boring, cool or the lamest people you ever met in your life. They had no idea they were living in the past. They all thought they were living in the present. Accordingly, like any person, past or present, could be, some of them were smart and kind and geniuses about medicine and also completely dull on a personal level. (I’m trying to come to terms with loving John Snow’s deductive brilliance and being absolutely certain I would never want to spend more than ten minutes talking to him.)

When I read things like, “The foundations of capitalism are shattering,” I’m like, maybe we need some time where we’re walking around with a donkey with pots clanging on the sides. . . . ’Cause now we live in an amazing world, and it’s wasted on the crappiest generation of spoiled idiots. . . . Flying is the worst one, because people come back from flights, and they tell you their story. . . . They’re like, “It was the worst day of my life. . . . We get on the plane and they made us sit there on the runway for forty minutes.” . . . Oh really, then what happened next? Did you fly through the air, incredibly, like a bird? Did you soar into the clouds, impossibly? Did you partake in the miracle of human flight, and then land softly on giant tires that you couldn’t even conceive how they fuckin’ put air in them? . . . You’re sitting in a chair in the sky. You’re like a Greek myth right now! . . . People say there’s delays? . . . Air travel’s too slow? New York to California in five hours. That used to take thirty years! And a bunch of you would die on the way there, and you’d get shot in the neck with an arrow, and the other passengers would just bury you and put a stick there with your hat on it and keep walking. . . . The Wright Brothers would kick us all in the [crotch] if they knew.1

(...) You Sophotechs are smarter than I am; why did you let me do such a foolish thing?” “We answer every question our resources and instruction parameters allow; we are more than happy to advise you, when and if we are asked.” “That’s not what I’m thinking of, and you know it.” “You are thinking we should use force to defend you against yourself against your will? That is hardly a thought worth thinking, sir. Your life has exactly the value you yourself place on it. It is yours to damage or ruin as you wish.” (...) “Is that another hint? Are you saying I’m destroying my life? People at the party, twice now, have said or implied that I’m going to endanger the Oecumene itself. Who stopped me?” “Not I. While life continues, it cannot be made to be without risk. The assessment of whether or not a certain risk is worth taking depends on subjective value-judgments. About such judgments even reasonable men can differ. We Sophotechs will not interfere with such decisions. (...) If we were to overrule your ownership of your own life, your life, would, in effect, become our property, and you, in effect, would become merely the custodian or trustee of that life. Do you think you would value it more in such a case, or less? And if you valued it less, would you not take greater risks and behave more self-destructively? If, on the other hand, each man’s life is his own, he may experiment freely, risking only what is his, till he find his best happiness.” “I see the results of failed experiments all around us, in these cylinders. I see wasted lives, and people trapped in mind sets and life forms which lead nowhere.” “While life continues, experimentation and evolution must also. The pain and risk of failure cannot be eliminated. The most we can do is maximize human freedom, so that no man is forced to pay for another man’s mistakes, so that the pain of failure falls only on he who risks it. And you do not know which ways of life lead nowhere. Even we Sophotechs do not know where all paths lead.” “How benevolent of you! We will always be free to be stupid.” “Cherish that freedom, young master; it is basic to all others.