Z We Do Quotes

So I hear we get to go to town this weekend. Want to catch a movie or something? --Z P.S. That is, if Jimmy doesn't mind. Translation: This weekend might be a good chance for us to see each other outside our school in a social environment, free of competetiton. I do not view other boys as threats, and I enjoy making them seem insignificant by calling them the wrong names. (Translation by Macey McHenry)

If the beat is time, flow is what we do with that time, how we live through it. The beat is everywhere, but every life has to find its own flow.

Marry me, Zelda. We'll make it all up as we go. What do you say?

Don't be an asshole" Rhage summed up the regurgitation with two words: "Kettle.Black." Fucking hell. "Did you guys plan that out?" "Yeah and if you don't fight us"- Hollywood bit down on the grape Tootsie Pop-"we'll do it again- only with the dance moves this time" "Spare me." "Fine.Unless you agree to home it,we WILL rock the dance moves." To prove the point ,the moron linked his palms behind his head and started doing something obscene with his hips. Which was backed up by a series of,"Uh-huh,uh-huh,ohhhh, yeeeeeeah,who's your daddy..." The others looked at Rhage like he'd grown a horn in the middle of his forehead. Nothing unusual there. And Tohr knew that, in spite of this ridiculous diversion,if he didn't cave,the lot of them would crawl so far up his ass,he'd be coughing up shitkickers. Rhage wheeled around,shoved out his butt,and started slapping his moneymaker like it was bread dough. "For the love of the Virgin Scribe,"Z muttered "put us out of this misery, and go the fuck home" Someone else chimed in, "You know, I never thought there were advantages to being blind..." "Or deaf" "Or mute," somebody added

We relinquished our freedom that day, and we were more than happy to see it go. From that moment on we lived in true freedom, the freedom to point to someone else and say “They told me to do it! It’s their fault, not mine.” The freedom, God help us, to say “I was only following orders.”-World War Z

If we are willing to do the mental work, almost anything can be healed.

How do we remember this emptiness so in fullness we won't forget?

Sometimes we gotta be brave even when we're scared. We gotta not let being scared keep us from thinkin' straight. That's all brave is, boy, when you come right down to it, not lettin' the fear get you so turned around you start doin' stupid things, instead of what you know you ought to do.

Do we miss not only the past but every future the lost past describes? Is that just the nature of missing? All the lost might-have-beens? The certainty that those uncertain futures are gone? If we can't embrace uncertainty do we miss the point of love?

How do we remember this emptiness so in fullness we won't forget?' Asked once, when emptiness was the worst. Why ever [would] he want to remember that?

If we desire to live, we can only do so in the margins of that place.

And now here we were, almost a thousand years later, still doing it. Trying to make sense of what was happening around us. Maybe that's what life is, really.

You can't blame anyone else... You have to make your own choices and live every agonizing day with the consequences of those choices. He knew this. That's why he deserted us like we deserted those civilians. He saw the road ahead, a steep, treacherous mountain road. We'd all have to hike that road, each of us dragging the boulder of what we'd done behind us. He couldn't do it. He couldn't shoulder the weight." - Philip Adler

Do we miss not only the past but every future the lost past describes? Is that just the nature of missing? All the lost might-have-beens? The certainty that those uncertain futures are gone?

New York has a thousand universes in it that don't always connect but we do all walk the same streets, hear the same sirens, ride the same subways, see the same headlines in the Post, read the same writings on the walls. That shared landscape gets inside of all of us and, in some small way, unites us, makes us think we know each other even when we don't.

He believed, as I did, that we are helpless to resist or influence what our hearts are bound to do.” - Z - A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald

Because sometimes doing the right thing when everything else is wrong is all we have left.

From that moment on we lived in true freedom, the freedom to point to someone else and "They told me to do it! It's their fault, not mine.

We give violent movies a pass but come down hard on a rapper like Scarface, who is ultimately a storyteller just like Brian de Palma. And neither of them is responsible for the poverty and violence that really do shape people's lives--not to mention their individual choices.

Oh, look, the lights are so pretty,” I said dreamily, having just noticed them. I smiled at the way the lights were dancing overhead, pink and yellow and blue. I felt some pressure on my arm and thought, I should look over and see what’s going on, but then the thought was gone, sliding away like Jell-O off a hot car hood. “Fang?” “Yeah. I’m here.” I struggled to focus on him. “I’m so glad you’re here.” “Yeah, I got that.” “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” I peered up at him, trying to see past the too-bright lights. “You’d be fine,” he muttered. “No,” I said, suddenly struck by how unfine I would be. “I would be totally unfine. Totally.” It seemed very urgent that he understand this. Again I felt some tugging on my arm, and I really wondered what that was about. Was Ella’s mom going to start this procedure any time soon? “It’s okay. Just relax.” He sounded stiff and nervous. “Just...relax. Don’t try to talk.” “I don’t want my chip anymore,” I explained groggily, then frowned. “Actually, I never wanted that chip.” “Okay,” said Fang. “We’re taking it out.” “I just want you to hold my hand.” “I am holding your hand.” “Oh. I knew that.” I drifted off for a few minutes, barely aware of anything, but feeling Fang’s hand still in mine. “Do you have a La-Z-Boy somewhere?” I roused myself to ask, every word an effort. “Um, no,” said Ella’s voice, somewhere behind my head. “I think I would like a La-Z-Boy,” I mused, letting my eyes drift shut again. “Fang, don’t go anywhere.” “I won’t. I’m here.” “Okay. I need you here. Don’t leave me.” “I won’t.” “Fang, Fang, Fang,” I murmured, overwhelmed with emotion. “I love you. I love you sooo much.” I tried to hold out my arms to show how much, but I couldn’t move them. “Oh, jeez,” Fang said, sounding strangled.

The living dead had taken more from us than land and loved ones. They'd robbed us of our confidence as the planet's dominant life form. We were a shaken, broken species, driven to the edge of extinction and grateful only for tomorrow with perhaps a little less suffering than today. Was this the legacy we would leave our children, a level of anxiety and self-doubt not seen since our simian ancestors cowered in the tallest trees? What kind of world would they rebuild? Would they rebuild at all? Could they continue to progress, knowing that they would be powerless to reclaim their future? And what if that future saw another rise of the living dead? Would our descendants rise to meet them in battle, or simply crumple in meek surrender and accept what they believe to be their inevitable extinction? For this alone, we had to reclaim our planet. We had to prove to ourselves that we could do it, and leave that proof as this war's greatest monument. The long, hard road back to humanity, or the regressive ennui of Earth's once-proud primates. That was the choice, and it had to be made now.

Why'd you go and have to have a straight boy crush?" "We all do. That's how fairies get their wings.

The feelings of excitement, enthusiasm, and energy dissipate. Dopamine has shut down. Dopamine circuits don’t process experience in the real world, only imaginary future possibilities. For many people it’s a letdown. They’re so attached to dopaminergic stimulation that they flee the present and take refuge in the comfortable world of their own imagination. “What will we do tomorrow?” they ask themselves as they chew their food, oblivious to the fact that they’re not even noticing this meal they had so eagerly anticipated. To travel hopefully is better than to arrive is the motto of the dopamine enthusiast.

Susan . . . it wasn't a good name, was it? It wasn't a truly bad name, it wasn't like poor Iodine in the fourth form, or Nigella, a name which meant "oops, we wanted a boy." But it was dull. Susan. Sue. Good old Sue. It was a name that made sandwiches, kept its head in difficult circumstances, and could reliably look after other people's children. It was a name used by no queens or goddesses anywhere. And you couldn't do much even with the spelling. You could turn it into Suzi, and it sounded as though you danced on tables for a living. You could put in a Z and a couple of Ns and an E, but it still looked like a name with extensions built on. It was as bad as Sara, a name that cried out for a prosthetic H.

A reporter once asked me why I think progressive men who earn significantly less than their breadwinning wives still won't quit their jobs to take care of their children. Why do they still hold on to their careers, even if taking care of the children would make more financial sense because the cost of childcare is higher than their net salary? I think I know the answer to that now, and it sucks. Women are not expected to live a life for themselves. When women dedicate their lives to children, it is deemed a worthy and respectable choice. When women dedicate themselves to a passion outside of the family that doesn't involve worshiping their husbands or taking care of their kids, they're seen as selfish, cold, or unfit mothers. But when a man spends hours grueling over a craft, profession, or project, he's admired and seen as a genius. And when a man finds a woman who worships him, who dedicates her life to serving him, he's lucky. But when a man dedicates himself to taking care of his children it's seen as a last resort. That it must be because he ran out of other options. That it's plan Z. That it's an indicator of his inability to provide for his family. Basically, that he's a fucking loser. I think it's one of the most important falsehoods we need to shatter when talking about women's rights.

Stop doing this to yourself, man. Find something that makes you happy and be that. We can't let the fear of our fucked up lives stop us from finding our bliss.

But evidence is all around you.” “The world is all around me. Some parts I understand, some I don’t. Some the scientists do, some they don’t. It exists. That only proves it exists.” “I don’t understand how you can look at the world and say there’s no God.” “And I don’t know how you can look at the world and pretend you know there’s a God and what he wants. So we’re even.

Oh, you know, umm, where do you put your bodies?” Holly asked awkwardly. I wanted to palm my forehead. We were going to have to work on Holly’s extemporaneous abilities if she were going to play detective again.

(…) jest naiwnością mniemanie, jakoby zachwyt nasz wobec dzieła sztuki z nas samych pochodził: że zachwyt ten w sporej mierze nie rodzi się z ludzi, ale między ludźmi, i jest to tak jakbyśmy wzajemnie zmuszali się do zachwytu (choć nikt „osobiście” nie jest zachwycony). / It is naive to believe that the admiration for a masterpiece is spontaneous. The admiration, to a great extent, is not born within people but between people, as if we forced each other to admire (while no one is “personally” enraptured). (Dziennik, 1956, XX, Wtorek I)

The first step in any encounter with art is to do nothing, to just watch, giving your eye a chance to absorb all that's there. We shouldn't think "This is good," or "This is bad," or "This is a Baroque picture which means X, Y, Z." Ideally, for the first minute we shouldn't think at all. Art needs time to perform its work on us.

Do you understand economics? I mean big-time, prewar, global capitalism. Do you get how it worked? I don’t, and anyone who says they do is full of shit. There are no rules, no scientific absolutes. You win, you lose, it’s a total crapshoot. The only rule that ever made sense to me I learned from a history, not an economics, professor at Wharton. “Fear,” he used to say, “fear is the most valuable commodity in the universe.” That blew me away. “Turn on the TV,” he’d say. “What are you seeing? People selling their products? No. People selling the fear of you having to live without their products.” Fuckin’ A, was he right. Fear of aging, fear of loneliness, fear of poverty, fear of failure. Fear is the most basic emotion we have. Fear is primal. Fear sells. That was my mantra. “Fear sells.

What story will our kids be telling about us someday, do you suppose?” “It’ll be a lot more romantic than two senators matchmaking,” I said. “They’ll say that we were meant to be together no matter what. For us, stars aligned, the gods smiled—prob’ly there was a tidal wave someplace, too, and we just haven’t heard about it yet.” “A Homeric epic, it sounds like. Have another glass of champagne and tell me more.” *

As soon as I saw that doll all splotched with mud, I saw myself, saw how soiled I was. Or thought I was. From that minute on, I felt liked I'd slipped through a hole in God's pocket. Just took a dive right into the dirt and was lost forever." Greg kissed Faron's hair. "You never hit the dirt. You just slid from one pocket to another. That's what I did too - I took a journey I was meant to take. I know that now." Absorbing this, Faron slanted a puzzled look at Greg. "Which pocket do you suppose I landed in?" "This one. The one we're in together. The one I believe we'll stay in." Faron felt a thrill of optimism in his heart. "I never thought of it that way." "I never did either. Until today." Greg once again settled onto Faron's chest. His cheek moved noticeable into a smile. "God isn't small, honey. God has a lot of freakin' pockets. And we just found the one we belong in.

8But do not overlook this one fact, beloved, that with the Lord one day is as a thousand years, and  t a thousand years as one day. 9 u The Lord is not slow to fulfill his promise  v as some count slowness, but  w is patient toward you, [1]  x not wishing that any should perish, but  y that all should reach repentance. 10But  z the day of the Lord will come like a thief, and then  a the heavens will pass away with a roar, and  b the heavenly bodies [2] will be burned up and dissolved, and the earth and the works that are done on it will be exposed. [3] 11Since all these things are thus to be dissolved,  c what sort of people ought you to be in lives of holiness and godliness, 12 d waiting for and hastening the coming of the day of God, because of which the heavens will be set on fire and dissolved, and  e the heavenly bodies will melt as they burn! 13But according to his promise we are waiting for  f new heavens and a new earth  g in which righteousness dwells.

Identifying ourselves with our dopamine circuits traps us in a world of speculation and possibility. The concrete world of here and now is disdained, ignored, or even feared, because we can’t control it. We can only control the future, and giving up control is not something dopaminergic creatures like to do. But none of it is real. Even a future one second away is unreal. It is only the stark facts of the present that are real, facts that must be accepted exactly as they are, facts that cannot be modified by a hair’s breadth to suit our needs. This is the world of reality. The future, where dopaminergic creatures live their lives, is a world of phantoms.

Instead of taking a bow for walking on the moon, Colonel Buzz Aldrin, PhD, told his admirers, “It’s something we did. Now we should do something else,” apparently no more satisfied than if he had painted a fence. His desire was not to bask in his glory but to find “something else”—the next big challenge that could hold his interest. This perpetual need to identify a goal and calculate a way to reach it was perhaps the most important factor in his historic success. But it’s not easy having so much dopamine coursing through the control circuits. It almost certainly played a significant role in Aldrin’s post-lunar struggle with depression, alcoholism, three divorces, suicidal impulses, and a stay on a psychiatric ward, which he described in his candid autobiography, Magnificent Desolation: The Long Journey Home from the Moon.

The story of the rapper and the story of the hustler are like rap itself, two kinds of rhythm working together, having a conversation with each other, doing more together than they could do apart. It's been said that the thing that makes rap special, that makes it different both from pop music and from written poetry, is that it's built around two kinds of rhythm. The first kind of rhythm is the meter. In poetry, the meter is abstract, but in rap, the meter is something you literally hear: it's the beat. The beat in a song never stops, it never varies. No matter what other sounds are on the track, even if it's a Timbaland production with all kinds of offbeat fills and electronics, a rap song is usually built bar by bar, four-beat measure by four-beat measure. It's like time itself, ticking off relentlessly in a rhythm that never varies and never stops. When you think about it like that, you realize the beat is everywhere, you just have to tap into it. You can bang it out on a project wall or an 808 drum machine or just use your hands. You can beatbox it with your mouth. But the beat is only one half of a rap song's rhythm. The other is the flow. When a rapper jumps on a beat, he adds his own rhythm. Sometimes you stay in the pocket of the beat and just let the rhymes land on the square so that the beat and flow become one. But sometimes the flow cops up the beat, breaks the beat into smaller units, forces in multiple syllables and repeated sounds and internal rhymes, or hangs a drunken leg over the last bap and keeps going, sneaks out of that bitch. The flow isn't like time, it's like life. It's like a heartbeat or the way you breathe, it can jump, speed up, slow down, stop, or pound right through like a machine. If the beat is time, flow is what we do with that time, how we live through it. The beat is everywhere, but every life has to find its own flow. Just like beats and flows work together, rapping and hustling, for me at least, live through each other. Those early raps were beautiful in their way and a whole generation of us felt represented for the first time when we heard them. But there's a reason the culture evolved beyond that playful, partying lyrical style. Even when we recognized the voices, and recognized the style, and even personally knew the cats who were on the records, the content didn't always reflect the lives we were leading. There was a distance between what was becoming rap's signature style - the relentlessness, the swagger, the complex wordplay - and the substance of the songs. The culture had to go somewhere else to grow. It had to come home.

Going for the brain. [He chuckles.] We talk about it today as if it is some feat of magic, like holy water or a silver bullet, but why wouldn’t destruction of the brain be the only way to annihilate these creatures? Isn’t it the only way to annihilate us as well? You mean human beings? [He nods.] Isn’t that all we are? Just a brain kept alive by a complex and vulnerable machine we call the body? The brain cannot survive if just one part of the machine is destroyed or even deprived of such necessities as food or oxygen. That is the only measurable difference between us and “The Undead.” Their brains do not require a support system to survive, so it is necessary to attack the organ itself.

We perceive our environment in three dimensions, but we don’t actually live in a 3-D world. 3-D is static. A snapshot. We have to add a fourth dimension to begin to describe the nature of our existence. The 4-D tesseract doesn’t add a spatial dimension. It adds a temporal one. It adds time, a stream of 3-D cubes, representing space as it moves along time’s arrow. This is best illustrated by looking up into the night sky at stars whose brilliance took fifty light-years to reach our eyes. Or five hundred. Or five billion. We’re not just looking into space, we’re looking back through time. Our path through this 4-D spacetime is our worldline (reality), beginning with our birth and ending with our death. Four coordinates (x, y, z, and t [time]) locate a point within the tesseract. And we think it stops there, but that’s only true if every outcome is inevitable, if free will is an illusion, and our worldline is solitary. What if our worldline is just one of an infinite number of worldlines, some only slightly altered from the life we know, others drastically different? The Many-Worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics posits that all possible realities exist. That everything which has a probability of happening is happening. Everything that might have occurred in our past did occur, only in another universe. What if that’s true? What if we live in a fifth-dimensional probability space? What if we actually inhabit the multiverse, but our brains have evolved in such a way as to equip us with a firewall that limits what we perceive to a single universe? One worldline. The one we choose, moment to moment. It makes sense if you think about it. We couldn’t possibly contend with simultaneously observing all possible realities at once. So how do we access this 5-D probability space? And if we could, where would it take us? —

What I’m about to tell you,” Elliott told me, “ninety-nine percent of people in the world will never understand.” For the first time all week, it was just the two of us. Elliott had told Austin he wanted to talk to me one-on-one. We were standing on a rooftop lounge during sunset, looking out at the Manhattan skyline. “You see, most people live a linear life,” he continued. “They go to college, get an internship, graduate, land a job, get a promotion, save up for a vacation each year, work toward their next promotion, and they just do that their whole lives. Their lives move step by step, slowly and predictably. “But successful people don’t buy into that model. They opt into an exponential life. Rather than going step by step, they skip steps. People say that you first need to ‘pay your dues’ and get years of experience before you can go out on your own and get what you truly want. Society feeds us this lie that you need to do x, y, and z before you can achieve your dream. It’s bullshit. The only person whose permission you need to live an exponential life is your own. “Sometimes an exponential life lands in your lap, like with a child prodigy. But most of the time, for people like you and me, we have to seize it for ourselves. If you actually want to make a difference in the world, if you want to live a life of inspiration, adventure, and wild success—you need to grab on to that exponential life—and hold on to it with all you’ve got.

You sayin' you want to go?" "Don't you?" "Hell no!" "Okay,I'll tell Matt and Jared that they can go to Paris without us." The only response was stunned silence, and I finally turned to smile at him. "Do you want to reconsider?" I asked. "The wedding's in Paris?" "Yep." His dark eyes were huge, and I could see so much in them. He was excited, almost giddy. I could see it bubbling up in him, but he was trying t stay calm and not get his hopes up. "Can we afford Paris?" "No," I said, "but it doesn't matter. Cole's footing the bill." He grabbed my shirt and pushed me back against the countertop, almost as if he was going to kiss me, but stopped short, looking into my eyes. "Are you serious?" "Would I lie to you about something like this?" "No." "Do you think I'd make it up just to tease you?" "No." "Yes." He backed up a step. "Yes what?" he asked. I could hardly keep from laughing that I'd finally managed to turn the tables on him with his own backward form of communication. "Yes, I'm absolutely serious. Cole offered to fly us all to Paris." ... His expression was so full of hope, I thought it was a good thing I hadn't tried to say no. He put his hand against my cheek and looked into my eyes. "Tell me what you want to do." All I had to do was tell him the truth. I brushed his hair out of his eyes and said, "I want to do whatever will make you happy." He smiled at me, the huge, excited smile of a child who woke up from his nap to find himself in Disneyland. "I want to go to Paris." "Okay," I said as I leaned down to kiss him. "Then you will.

They spent years putting the tiniest of details on these works of art. It reminded me of what we try to do with ourselves. We spend years trying to paint our personalities to look a certain way or to carve memories into our souls.

Are you kidding? That’s exactly why I hate him! He knew that this was just the first step of a long war and we were going to need men like him to help win it. Fucking coward. Remember what I said about being beholden to your conscience? You can’t blame anyone else, not the plan’s architect, not your commanding officer, no one but yourself. You have to make your own choices and live every agonizing day with the consequences of those choices. He knew this. That’s why he deserted us like we deserted those civilians. He saw the road ahead, a steep, treacherous mountain road. We’d all have to hike that road, each of us dragging the boulder of what we’d done behind us. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t shoulder the weight.

Ruby: I’ve decided. I’m putting my Gary on a diet. Rosie: You’re putting him on a diet? How on earth can you control what your twenty-one-year-old son eats? Ruby: Oh it’s easy; I’ll just nail down everything to the floor. Rosie: So what kind of diet is it? Ruby: I don’t know. I bought a magazine, but there are so many stupid diets out there I don’t know which one to pick. Remember that ridiculous one that you and I did last year? The alphabet one where we had to eat foods beginning with a certain letter every day? Rosie: Oh yeah! How long did we do that for?! Ruby: Em . . . that would be 26 days of course Rosie Rosie: Oh . . . right . . . of course. You put on weight on the third day. Ruby: That’s because the third day was the lucky letter “C” . . . Cakes . . . mmmm Rosie: Well we made up for it on the last day. I was bloody starving on “Z” day; I was practically chasing zebras with a kitchen knife around the zoo. Could have eaten the zoo I suppose . . . Ruby: You should have done what I did, I ate like a queen. I became German for the day and ate “ze cakes” and “ze buns.” Oh I don’t know Rosie. I think I’ll just invent a diet of my own and give those stupid magazines a run for their money

Footnote 164: "I finally hooked up with Ashley. I went over to her place yesterday morning. Early. She lives in Venice. Her eyebrows look like flakes of sunlight. Her smile, I'm sure, burnt Rome to the ground. And for the life of me I didn't know who she was or where we met... We sat down and I wanted to talk. I wanted to ask her who she was, where we'd met, been before, but she just smiled and held my hand as we lay down on the hammock and started to swing above all those dead leaves... Before I left she told me our story: where we met - Texas - kissed, but never made love and this had confused and haunted her and she had needed it before she got married which was in four months to a man she loved who made a living manufacturing TNT exclusively for a highway construction firm up in Colorado where he frequently went on business trips and where one night, drunk, angry and disappointed he had invited a hooker back to his motel room and so on and who cared and what was I doing here anyway?... I was still hurting, abandoned, drank three glasses of bourbon and fumed on some weed, then came here, thinking of voices, real and imagined, of ghosts, my ghost, of her, at long last, in this idiotic footnote, when she gently pushed me out her door and I said quietly 'Ashley' causing her to stop pushing me and ask 'yes?' her eyes bright with something she saw that I could never see though what she saw was me, and me not caring now at least knowing the truth and telling her the truth: 'I've never been to Texas.'" - House of Leaves

I'd already sensed the attraction between us. it was apparent from the first time we met. But that sort of attraction was so usual that it didn't rate serious attention, let alone concern. When the attraction turned into something that smelled and tasted like substance, though, that was when things got complicated. A married woman will first deny to herself that anything improper is going on. She'll make excuses for her eagerness to see the man in question. She likes his sharp mind, for example, or his fresh views, or the stories he tells about his experiences, which are so different from her own. She'll dismiss as mere amusement her mind's tendency to wonder where he is and what he's doing, and whether he's thinking of her. She might even avoid the fellow for a day or two to test herself. If she doesn't see him and she feels fine about that, she'll know there's no cause for concern. The test is fake, though, too, because she's lying to herself to make sure she passes the test, which will then justify her choice to see him again, often.

I know “professional” historians like to talk about how Yonkers represented a “catastrophic failure of the modern military apparatus,” how it proved the old adage that armies perfect the art of fighting the last war just in time for the next one. Personally, I think that’s a big ’ole sack of it. Sure, we were unprepared, our tools, our training, everything I just talked about, all one class-A, gold-standard clusterfuck, but the weapon that really failed wasn’t something that rolled off an assembly line. It’s as old as…I don’t know, I guess as old as war. It’s fear, dude, just fear and you don’t have to be Sun freakin Tzu to know that real fighting isn’t about killing or even hurting the other guy, it’s about scaring him enough to call it a day. Break their spirit, that’s what every successful army goes for, from tribal face paint to the “blitzkrieg” to…what did we call the first round of Gulf War Two, “Shock and Awe”? Perfect name, “Shock and Awe”! But what if the enemy can’t be shocked and awed? Not just won’t, but biologically can’t! That’s what happened that day outside New York City, that’s the failure that almost lost us the whole damn war. The fact that we couldn’t shock and awe Zack boomeranged right back in our faces and actually allowed Zack to shock and awe us! They’re not afraid! No matter what we do, no matter how many we kill, they will never, ever be afraid!

From an evolutionary standpoint, food that you don’t have is critically different from food that you do have. It’s the same for water, shelter, and tools. The division is so fundamental that separate pathways and chemicals evolved in the brain to handle peripersonal and extrapersonal space. When you look down, you look into the peripersonal space, and for that the brain is controlled by a host of chemicals concerned with experience in the here and now. But when the brain is engaged with the extrapersonal space, one chemical exercises more control than all the others, the chemical associated with anticipation and possibility: dopamine. Things in the distance, things we don’t have yet, cannot be used or consumed, only desired. Dopamine has a very specific job: maximizing resources that will be available to us in the future; the pursuit of better things.

Vla­di­mir, Bon­dy i ja tak bar­dzo lubi­li­śmy piwo, że gdy przy­no­szo­no nam do sto­łu po pierw­szym kuflu, wpra­wia­li­śmy w popłoch całą gospo­dę, nabie­ra­li­śmy pia­ny w dło­nie i nacie­ra­li­śmy nią sobie twa­rze, wcie­ra­li­śmy pia­nę we wło­sy jak Żydzi, któ­rzy sma­ru­ją pej­sy wodą z cukrem, a że przy dru­gim piwie powta­rza­li­śmy ten zabieg z pia­ną, świe­ci­li­śmy się i pach­nie­li­śmy piwem na kilo­metr. Przede wszyst­kim jed­nak – to były wygłu­py – był to wyraz nasze­go zachwy­tu piwem, nie­okieł­zna­ne­go zachwy­tu tym, że jeste­śmy mło­dzi. Byliśmy entuzjastami piwa…

Wszyscy ciągle tracimy różne ważne dla nas rzeczy - mówi, gdy telefon milknie - Ważne okazje, możliwości, doznajemy uczuć, których nie da się odwrócić. Na tym między innymi polega znaczenie życia. Lecz w naszych głowach, przypuszczam, że to jest w naszych głowach, znajduje się niewielki pokój do gromadzenia takich rzeczy jako wspomnień. Na pewno wygląda jak pokój z księgozbiorem tej biblioteki. I żeby dokładnie poznać stan własnego serca, musimy ciągle katalogować zbiory w tym pokoju. Trzeba tam też sprzątać, wietrzyć, zmieniać wodę w wazonach z kwiatami. Innymi słowy, będziesz wiecznie żył we własnej bibliotece.

It's not a crime to offend others; in fact, it's pretty much a natural consequence of having diverse cultures. We live in a world full of people with different backgrounds, interests, and values, and we must learn to accept that there will be clashes. As long as the differences do no harm, we should back off and accept them.

Many of us would like to see an end to discrimination of all kinds, happier families, and a safer, more harmonious future for our children. But how can we as individuals make a difference? We can begin by learning to listen in a mindful way. Listening is the first step in making people feel valued. Mindful listening allows us to do more than take in peoples words; it helps us better understand the how and why of their views. When understanding occurs, a sense of calm is achieved on both sides, even if no point of agreement is reached. From understanding, respect and trust for one another are possible; we are free to open our minds and widen the scope of potential solutions.

If men create intelligent machines, or fantasize about them, it is either because they secretly despair of their own intelligence or because they are in danger of succumbing to the weight of a monstrous and useless intelligence which they seek to exorcize by transferring it to machines, where they can play with it and make fun of it. By entrusting this burdensome intelligence to machines we are released from any responsibility to knowledge, much as entrusting power to politicians allows us to disdain any aspiration of our own to power. If men dream of machines that are unique, that are endowed with genius, it is because they despair of their own uniqueness, or because they prefer to do without it - to enjoy it by proxy, so to speak, thanks to machines. What such machines offer is the spectacle of thought, and in manipulating them people devote themselves more to the spectacle of thought than to thought itself. It is not for nothing that they are described as 'virtual', for they put thought on hold indefinitely, tying its emergence to the achievement of a complete knowledge. The act of thinking itself is thus put off for ever. Indeed, the question of thought can no more be raised than the question of the freedom of future generations, who will pass through life as we travel through the air, strapped into their seats. These Men of Artificial Intelligence will traverse their own mental space bound hand and foot to their computers. Immobile in front of his computer, Virtual Man makes love via the screen and gives lessons by means of the teleconference. He is a physical - and no doubt also a mental cripple. That is the price he pays for being operational. Just as eyeglasses and contact lenses will arguably one day evolve into implanted prostheses for a species that has lost its sight, it is similarly to be feared that artificial intelligence and the hardware that supports it will become a mental prosthesis for a species without the capacity for thought. Artificial intelligence is devoid of intelligence because it is devoid of artifice.

Because his own deeds were evil and his brother’s righteous. 13Do not be surprised, brothers, [3]  z that the world hates you. 14We know that  a we have passed out of death into life, because we love the brothers. Whoever does not love abides in death. 15 b Everyone who hates his brother is a murderer, and you know that  c no murderer has eternal life abiding in him.

MIRACLE OF LIFE   The miracle of life is given by One greater than ourselves, but once given, each life is ours to nurture and preserve, to foster, not only for today’s world but for a better one to come. There is no purpose more noble than for us to sustain and celebrate life in a turbulent world, and that is what we must do now. The Quest for Peace, the Cause of Freedom, 2005

nothing we make ever turns out exactly as we imagined; that this is a feature not a bug; and that this is why we do any of it. The trip down any path of creation is not A to B. That would be so boring. Or even A to Z. That’s too predictable. It’s A to way beyond zebra. That’s where the interesting stuff happens. The stuff that confounds our expectations. The stuff that changes us.

Isn’t that… A lie? It’s okay. You can say it. Yes, they were lies and sometimes that’s not a bad thing. Lies are neither bad nor good. Like a fire they can either keep you warm or burn you to death, depending on how they’re used. The lies our government told us before the war, the ones that were supposed to keep us happy and blind, those were the ones that burned, because they prevented us from doing what had to be done. However, by the time I made Avalon, everyone was already doing everything they could possibly do to survive. The lies of the past were long gone and now the truth was everywhere, shambling down their streets, crashing through their doors, clawing at their throats. The truth was that no matter what we did, chances were most of us, if not all of us, were never going to see the future. The truth was that we were standing at what might be the twilight of our species and that truth was freezing a hundred people to death every night. They needed something to keep them warm. And so I lied, and so did the president, and every doctor and priest, every platoon leader and every parent. “We’re going to be okay.” That was our message.

Meanings can indeed be forgotten, but only if we have chosen to bring to bear upon the text a singular scrutiny. Yet reading does not consist in stopping the chain of systems, in establishing a truth, a legality of the text, and consequently in leading its reader into "errors"; it consists in coupling these systems, not according to their finite quantity, but according to their plurality (which is a being, not a discounting): I pass, I intersect, I articulate, I release, I do not count. Forgetting meanings is not a matter for excuses, an unfortunate defect in performance; it is an affirmative value, a way of asserting the irresponsibility of the text, the pluralism of systems (if I closed their list, I would inevitably reconstitute a singular, theological meaning): it is precisely because I forget that I read.

Dallas pointed out to me once that there is a world of difference between being busy and being hurried. Being busy is an outward condition, a condition of the body. It occurs when we have many things to do. Busy-ness is inevitable in modern culture. If you are alive today in North America, you are a busy person. There are limits to how much busy-ness we can tolerate, so we wisely find ways to slow down whenever we can. We take vacations, we sit in a La-Z-Boy® with a good book, we enjoy a leisurely meal with friends. By itself, busy-ness is not lethal. Being hurried is an inner condition, a condition of the soul. It means to be so preoccupied with myself and my life that I am unable to be fully present with God, with myself, and with other people. I am unable to occupy this present moment. Busy-ness migrates to hurry when we let it squeeze God out of our lives. Note the differences between the two: Busy Hurried A full schedule Preoccupied Many activities Unable to be fully present An outward condition An inner condition of the soul Physically demanding Spiritually draining Reminds me I need God Causes me to be unavailable to God I cannot live in the kingdom of God with a hurried soul. I cannot rest in God with a hurried soul.

It’s fun figuring out things, and it’s fun carrying out the strategies developed to “game” the intricacies of car buying and the daily trip to work. Why? As always, the function of dopamine flows from the imperatives of evolution and survival. Dopamine encourages us to maximize our resources by rewarding us when we do so—the act of doing something well, of making our future a better, safer place, gives us a little dopamine “buzz.

We’d fought the living dead to a stalemate and, eventually, future generations might be able to reinhabit the planet with little or no physical danger. Yes, our defensive strategies had saved the human race, but what about the human spirit? The living dead had taken more from us than land and loved ones. They’d robbed us of our confidence as the planet’s dominant life-form. We were a shaken, broken species, driven to the edge of extinction and grateful only for a tomorrow with perhaps a little less suffering than today. Was this the legacy we would leave to our children, a level of anxiety and self-doubt not seen since our simian ancestors cowered in the tallest trees? What kind of world would they rebuild? Would they rebuild at all? Could they continue to progress, knowing that they had been powerless to reclaim their future? And what if that future saw another rise of the living dead? Would our descendants rise to meet them in battle, or simply crumple in meek surrender and accept what they believe to be their inevitable extinction? For this reason alone, we had to reclaim our planet. We had to prove to ourselves that we could do it, and leave that proof as this war’s greatest monument. The long, hard road back to humanity, or the regressive ennui of Earth’s once-proud primates. That was the choice, and it had to be made now.

Because his own deeds were evil and his brother’s righteous. 13Do not be surprised, brothers, [3]  z that the world hates you. 14We know that  a we have passed out of death into life, because we love the brothers. Whoever does not love abides in death. 15 b Everyone who hates his brother is a murderer, and you know that  c no murderer has eternal life abiding in him. 16By this we know love, that  d he laid down his life for us, and  e we ought to lay down our lives for the brothers.

September 10, 1965 Dear Francesca, Enclosed are two photographs. One is the shot I took of you in the pasture at sunrise. I hope you like it as much as I do. The other is of Roseman Bridge before I removed your note tacked to it. I sit here trolling the gray areas of my mind for every detail, every moment, of our time together. I ask myself over and over, “What happened to me in Madison County, Iowa?” And I struggle to bring it together. That’s why I wrote the little piece, “Falling from Dimension Z,” I have enclosed, as a way of trying to sift through my confusion. I look down the barrel of a lens, and you’re at the end of it. I begin work on an article, and I’m writing about you. I’m not even sure how I got back here from Iowa. Somehow the old truck brought me home, yet I barely remember the miles going by. A few weeks ago, I felt self-contained, reasonably content. Maybe not profoundly happy, maybe a little lonely, but at least content. All of that has changed. It’s clear to me now that I have been moving toward you and you toward me for a long time. Though neither of us was aware of the other before we met, there was a kind of mindless certainty humming blithely along beneath our ignorance that ensured we would come together. Like two solitary birds flying the great prairies by celestial reckoning, all of these years and lifetimes we have been moving toward one another. The road is a strange place. Shuffling along, I looked up and you were there walking across the grass toward my truck on an August day. In retrospect, it seems inevitable—it could not have been any other way—a case of what I call the high probability of the improbable. So here I am walking around with another person inside of me. Though I think I put it better the day we parted when I said there is a third person we have created from the two of us. And I am stalked now by that other entity. Somehow, we must see each other again. Any place, anytime. Call me if you ever need anything or simply want to see me. I’ll be there, pronto. Let me know if you can come out here sometime—anytime. I can arrange plane fare, if that’s a problem. I’m off to southeast India next week, but I’ll be back in late October. I Love You, Robert P. S., The photo project in Madison County turned out fine. Look for it in NG next year. Or tell me if you want me to send a copy of the issue when it’s published. Francesca Johnson set her brandy glass on the wide oak windowsill and stared at an eight-by-ten black-and-white photograph of herself.

Izolacja przykroiła mnie na swój obraz i podobieństwo. Obecność drugiej osoby - jakiejkolwiek osoby - opóźnia natychmiast mój proces myślenia i podczas gdy normalnego człowieka kontakt z innymi pobudza do rozmowy i wyrażenia czegoś, na mnie ten kontakt działa paraliżująco, jeśli tak można rzec. Będąc sam, jestem zdolny wymyślić różne dowcipne powiedzenia, odpowiedzieć szybko na to, czego nikt nie powiedział, błysnąć inteligentną towarzyskością wobec nikogo. Ale to wszystko znika, gdy znajdę się w czyjejś obecności: znika inteligencja, nie potrafię mówić i po jakichś piętnastu minutach odczuwam jedynie senność. Tylko moi wyimaginowani i widmowi przyjaciele, tylko moje rozmowy prowadzone z nimi w marzeniach są dla mnie realne i znaczące, pobudzają mój umysł, który odbija się w nich niczym w lustrze. Ciąży mi zresztą wszelka myśl o zmuszaniu się do kontaktu z innymi. Zwykłe zaproszenie na obiad z przyjacielem budzi we mnie trudny do określenia niepokój. Myśl o jakimś obowiązku towarzyskim - pójściu na pogrzeb, rozmowie z kimś na jakiś temat w biurze, udaniu się na dworzec po kogoś, znanego czy nieznanego - sama ta myśl już mi zakłóca dzień, a niekiedy nawet w przeddzień już się trapię, źle śpię, gdy tymczasem samo zdarzenie nie ma żadnego znaczenia i nie usprawiedliwia niczego. I to zawsze się powtarza, nigdy nie mogę się tego oduczyć. "Moje obyczaje skłaniają mnie ku samotności, a nie ku ludziom": nie wiem, czy to Rousseau, czy Senancour powiedział. Ale był to ktoś w moim rodzaju, choć chyba nie mogę powiedzieć, że z mojej rasy.

Whoever confesses that Jesus is the Son of God, God abides in him, and he in God. 16So x we have come to know and to believe the love that God has for us. y God is love, and z whoever abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him. 17By this a is love perfected with us, so that b we may have confidence for the day of judgment, because c as he is so also are we in this world. 18There is no fear in love, but d perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not a been perfected in love.

As an organization, McKinsey is extremely good at figuring out how much a team can do over the length of a typical study. The best EDs can balance the competing demands of client and team to a nicety; they tell the client, “We’re going to do X and Y. We could do Z, but it would kill the team,” while telling the team, “Look, we’ve already promised the client that we would do Z, so we’ve got to deliver.” They then work the team to its limit while simultaneously making the client feel that he is getting value for money and exceeding his expectations.

y Let the one who is taught the word share all good things with the one who teaches. 7 z Do not be deceived: God is not mocked, for  a whatever one sows, that will he also reap. 8For  b the one who sows to his own flesh  c will from the flesh reap corruption, but  d the one who sows to the Spirit will from the Spirit reap eternal life. 9And  e let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap,  f if we do not give up. 10So then,  g as we have opportunity, let us  h do good to everyone, and especially to those who are  i of the household of faith.

You remember your pre-internet brain, and you remember doing those things, but you don’t really remember how it felt. You don’t really remember how time felt. There’s that guy who wrote that book, I can’t remember what it’s called, fuckin’ genius guy. But he’s saying that the world has always been informed by people who read books, and not necessarily academically, but the concept of a narrative is very important to people’s lives. Those people grew up with not necessarily a sense of purpose, but a sense that your life is leading somewhere. That’s the way I relate to my music, because I see The 1975 as this story. But as we go into the future, the world is gonna start being informed by people who didn’t grow up with that narrative — who grew up with more of a sense of immediacy. And we start to feel more like a unit amongst other units, and everything becomes a lot more compartmentalized. So when we talk about Twitter, we know that we were happy before, but we can’t remember how it felt, so we won’t take the risk to leave it. The generation after us now, they don’t have that weird nostalgia or sense that something’s wrong: ‘I didn’t used to do this. I didn’t used to need this.

Lecz nawet gdyby się tego szczerze pragnęło — jak można z postanowienia prostego zacząć istnieć? jak można przejść samowładnie z niebytu w byt? To jest prerogatywa boska, nie ludzka: bóstwa powołują się do istnienia; ludzie są stwarzani. Zadanie nieporównanie łatwiejsze: uwierzyć we własne istnienie. Ale jak tu nakazać sobie wiarę? Tak samo jak wiara w istnienie Boga, wiara w istnienie człowieka jest albo spontaniczną, albo nie ma jej wcale. Czy znajdzie się kto taki, co wysłuchał teologicznych argumentów i — tak, przekonaliście mnie, chcę wierzyć, pstryk, et voilà — uwierzył? Wszak to absurd!

The war will not only change the map of the world but it will affect the destiny of every one I care about. Already, even before the war had broken out, we were scattered to the four winds, those of us who had lived and worked together and who had no thought to do anything but what we were doing. My friend X, who used to be terrified at the very mention of war, had volunteered for service in the British Army; my friend Y, who was utterly indifferent and who used to say that he would go right on working at the Bibliothèque Nationale war or no war, joined the Foreign Legion; my friend Z, who was an out and out pacifist, volunteered for ambulance service and has never been heard of since; some are in concentration camps in France and Germany, one is rotting away in Siberia, another is in China, another in Mexico, another in Australia. When we meet again some will be blind, some legless, some old and white-haired, some demented, some bitter and cynical. Maybe the world will be a better place to live in, maybe it'll be just the same, maybe it'll be worse than it is now—who knows? The strangest thing of all is that in a universal crisis of this sort one instinctively knows that certain ones are doomed and that others will be spared.

Security is a big and serious deal, but it’s also largely a solved problem. That’s why the average person is quite willing to do their banking online and why nobody is afraid of entering their credit card number on Amazon. At 37signals, we’ve devised a simple security checklist all employees must follow: 1. All computers must use hard drive encryption, like the built-in FileVault feature in Apple’s OS X operating system. This ensures that a lost laptop is merely an inconvenience and an insurance claim, not a company-wide emergency and a scramble to change passwords and worry about what documents might be leaked. 2. Disable automatic login, require a password when waking from sleep, and set the computer to automatically lock after ten inactive minutes. 3. Turn on encryption for all sites you visit, especially critical services like Gmail. These days all sites use something called HTTPS or SSL. Look for the little lock icon in front of the Internet address. (We forced all 37signals products onto SSL a few years back to help with this.) 4. Make sure all smartphones and tablets use lock codes and can be wiped remotely. On the iPhone, you can do this through the “Find iPhone” application. This rule is easily forgotten as we tend to think of these tools as something for the home, but inevitably you’ll check your work email or log into Basecamp using your tablet. A smartphone or tablet needs to be treated with as much respect as your laptop. 5. Use a unique, generated, long-form password for each site you visit, kept by password-managing software, such as 1Password.§ We’re sorry to say, “secretmonkey” is not going to fool anyone. And even if you manage to remember UM6vDjwidQE9C28Z, it’s no good if it’s used on every site and one of them is hacked. (It happens all the time!) 6. Turn on two-factor authentication when using Gmail, so you can’t log in without having access to your cell phone for a login code (this means that someone who gets hold of your login and password also needs to get hold of your phone to login). And keep in mind: if your email security fails, all other online services will fail too, since an intruder can use the “password reset” from any other site to have a new password sent to the email account they now have access to. Creating security protocols and algorithms is the computer equivalent of rocket science, but taking advantage of them isn’t. Take the time to learn the basics and they’ll cease being scary voodoo that you can’t trust. These days, security for your devices is just simple good sense, like putting on your seat belt.

THESSALONIANS 5 Now concerning  w the times and the seasons, brothers, [1]  x you have no need to have anything written to you. 2For you yourselves are fully aware that  y the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night. 3While people are saying, “There is peace and security,” then  z sudden destruction will come upon them  a as labor pains come upon a pregnant woman, and they will not escape. 4But you  b are not in darkness, brothers, for that day to surprise you like a thief. 5For you are all  c children [2] of light, children of the day. We are not of the night or of the darkness. 6So then  d let us not sleep, as others do, but let us  e keep awake and  f be sober.

Musisz wiedzieć również, że to ty i tylko ty jesteś odpowiedzialny za swoje życie. Twoim zajebanym obowiązkiem staje się DBANIE O SIEBIE. Poczucie winy drugiego rodzaju związane jest z poczuciem marnowania czasu i własnych możliwości – czuję, że życie, które prowadzę, nie jest dla mnie satysfakcjonujące. Często się zdarza, że jestem zmęczona bez powodu, bo wiele czasu zajmuje mi karcenie samej siebie za bezproduktywne lenistwo. Najczęściej przeżywam napięcie, niepokój. Nie jest to spowodowane żadną konkretną sytuacją z mojego obecnego życia. Niepokój, że mam coś do zrobienia. Jeśli mam coś w planach, cokolwiek, od razu budzi to we mnie napięcie. Lęk. Strach. Czuję go w ciele, sztywnieję. Nieważne, co to, może to być wycieczka na pocztę, kupno kawy – nie ma w tym żadnej hierarchii. Jedynym sposobem, żeby nie spełniać kolejnych oczekiwań narastających dookoła i nie mieć poczucia, że sobie nie radzę, jest powiedzieć, że jestem chora. I nie ma mnie. Żeby się przed tym schować. Zastanawiam się, które z tych „boję się” to w gruncie rzeczy „wstydzę się”. A przecież życie jest krótkie, life’s a bitch and then you die, więc nie możesz się zastanawiać nad tym, jak się czujesz, bo trzeba zrobić te rzeczy, o których myślisz, że powinieneś je zrobić. Musisz się wziąć w garść, życie jest ciężkie, lol. Stałam się dla siebie skurwiałym, niedobrym, dręczącym rodzicem, chociaż ani mnie nikt o to nie prosił, ani moi rodzice nigdy dla mnie tacy nie byli.

The intellect, as we have seen, cannot command the emotions, but it can channel currently existing emotional energy. If, for example, the emotions want X, the intellect might talk them into wanting to do Y by pointing out that doing it will get them X. As soon as the emotions are convinced that doing Y will get them X, the anxiety they felt with respect to X will transfer to Y. The intellect can then point out to the emotions that by doing Z, they can get Y; again, the anxiety will transfer. In this manner, anxiety flows down the chains of desire formed by the intellect. We thereby become motivated to fulfill the instrumental desires in these chains, even though doing so won’t itself feel good—indeed, even though doing so will feel bad.

When text messaging first came about, it was still a one-to-one negotiation: I propose an idea or something to you, you exchange back to me. When you get to 2010/2011, this new model of communication that exists is that you put something out there into the world and then you wait for a reaction. Now, if you look at the depression rates amongst young men, the correlation between these two things is very measurably concise, and amongst young women it’s insane. I’m not necessarily an empiricist, I believe in nuance and subtext and context, but I think that if there’s evidence like that, I mean — I’m sure we could really map depression on to the sale of avocados, too — but I do feel like that’s got something to do with it and it kind of freaks me out.

Pragnę, by się pani dowiedziała, że była ostatnim marzeniem mojej duszy. Mimo zupełnego upadku nie upadłem tak nisko, by widok pani opiekującej się ojcem i widok domu, z którego pani uczyniła taki dom, nie poruszył we mnie czegoś, co uważałem za umarłe. Od chwili, kiedy panią poznałem, dręczą mnie wyrzuty sumienia, których już wcale nie oczekiwałem. Od chwili, kiedy panią poznałem, słyszę dawne, wzywające mnie ku górze głosy, które w moim mniemaniu umilkły na zawsze. Do głowy zaczęły mi przychodzić myśli, aby odrodzić się, rozpocząć od nowa, zrzucić z ramio brzemię namiętności i grzechu. Naturalnie to tylko marzenia senne, co przemijają i śpiocha zostawiają na miejscu, gdzie leży. Gorąco jednak pragnę, by dowiedziała się pani, że była natchnieniem takich marzeń.

Pragnę, by się pani dowiedziała, że była ostatnim marzeniem mojej duszy. Mimo zupełnego upadku nie upadłem tak nisko, by widok pani opiekującej się ojcem i widok domu, z którego pani uczyniła taki dom, nie poruszył we mnie czegoś, co uważałem za umarłe. Od chwili, kiedy panią poznałem, dręczą mnie wyrzuty sumienia, których już wcale nie oczekiwałem. Od chwili, kiedy panią poznałem, słyszę dawne, wzywające mnie ku górze głosy, które w moim mniemaniu umilkły na zawsze. Do głowy zaczęły mi przychodzić myśli, aby odrodzić się, rozpocząć od nowa, zrzucić z ramion brzemię namiętności i grzechu. Naturalnie to tylko marzenia senne, co przemijają i śpiocha zostawiają na miejscu, gdzie leży. Gorąco jednak pragnę, by dowiedziała się pani, że była natchnieniem takich marzeń

Test the Spirits 1 JOHN 4 Beloved,  t do not believe every spirit, but  u test the spirits to see whether they are from God, for  v many  w false prophets  x have gone out into the world. 2By this you know the Spirit of God:  y every spirit that confesses that  z Jesus Christ has come in the flesh is from God, 3and every spirit  a that does not confess Jesus is not from God. This is the spirit of the antichrist, which you heard was coming and  b now is in the world already. 4Little children, you are from God and have overcome them, for  c he who is in you is greater than  d he who is in the world. 5 e They are from the world; therefore they speak from the world, and  f the world listens to them. 6We are from God.  g Whoever knows God listens to us; whoever is not from God does not listen to us. By this we know  h the Spirit of truth and  i the spirit of error.

They sit and stare and stare and sit Until they're hypnoti[z]ed by it, Until they're absolutely drunk With all that shocking ghastly junk. Oh yes, we know it keep them still, They don't climb out the window sill, They never fight or kick or punch, They leave you free to cook the lunch And wash the dishes in the sink- But did you ever stop to think, To wonder just exactly what This does to your beloved tot? It rots the senses in the head! It kills imagination dead! It clogs and clutters up the mind! It makes a child so dull and blind He can no longer understand A fantasy, a fairyland! His brain becomes as soft as cheese! His powers of thinking rust and freeze! He cannot think-he only sees! 'All right' you'll cry. 'All right' you'll say, 'But if we take the set away, What shall we do to entertain Our darling children? Please explain!' We'll answer this by asking you, 'How used they keep themselves contented Before this monster was invented?' Have you forgotten? Don't you know? We'll say it very loud and slow: They... used ... to... read! They'd read and read, And read and read, and then proceed To read some more, Great Scott! Gadzooks! One half their lives was reading books!... Oh books, what books they used to know, Those children living long ago! So please, oh please, we beg, we pray, Go throw your TV set away, And in its place you can install A lovely bookshelf on the wall... ...They'll now begin to feel the need Of having something good to read. And once they start-oh boy, oh boy! You watch the slowly growing joy That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen They'll wonder what they'd ever seen In that ridiculous machine, That nauseating, foul, unclean, Repulsive television screen! And later, each and every kid Will love you more for what you did...

There’s been a revival of the old debate: with the failure of the wormholes, should we consider redesigning our minds to encompass interstellar distances? One self spanning thousands of stars, not via cloning, but through acceptance of the natural time scale of the lightspeed lag. Millennia passing between mental events. Local contingencies dealt with by non-conscious systems. I don’t think the idea will gain much support, though – and the new astronomical projects are something of an antidote. We can watch the stars from a distance, as ever, but we have to make peace with the fact that we’ve stayed behind. I keep asking myself, though: where do we go from here? History can’t guide us. Evolution can’t guide us. The C-Z charter says ”understand and respect the universe”… but in what form? On what scale? With what kind of senses, what kind of minds? We can become anything at all – and that space of possible futures dwarfs the galaxy. Can we explore it without losing our way? Fleshers used to spin fantasies about aliens arriving to ”conquer” Earth, to steal their ”precious” physical resources, to wipe them out for fear of ”competition”… as if a species capable of making the journey wouldn’t have had the power, or the wit, or the imagination, to rid itself of obsolete biological imperatives. ”Conquering the galaxy” is what bacteria with spaceships would do – knowing no better, having no choice. Our condition is the opposite of that: we have no end of choices. That’s why we need to find another space-faring civilisation. Understanding Lacerta is important, the astrophysics of survival is important, but we also need to speak to others who’ve faced the same decisions, and discovered how to live, what to become. We need to understand what it means to inhabit the universe.

About midnight Paul and Silas were praying and singing hymns to God, and the prisoners were listening to them, 26and suddenly  q there was a great earthquake, so that the foundations of the prison were shaken. And immediately  r all the doors were opened, and  s everyone’s bonds were unfastened. 27When the jailer woke and saw that the prison doors were open, he drew his sword and  t was about to kill himself, supposing that the prisoners had escaped. 28But Paul cried with a loud voice, “Do not harm yourself, for we are all here.” 29And the jailer [5] called for lights and rushed in, and trembling with fear he  u fell down before Paul and Silas. 30Then he brought them out and said, “Sirs,  v what must I do to be  w saved?” 31And they said,  x “Believe in the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved, you  y and your household.” 32And they spoke the word of the Lord to him and to all who were in his house. 33And he took them  z the same hour of the night and washed their wounds; and he  a was baptized at once, he and all his family.

By this we know that we abide in him and he in us, because he has given us of his Spirit. 14And  t we have seen and testify that  u the Father has sent his Son to be the Savior of  v the world. 15 w Whoever confesses that Jesus is the Son of God, God abides in him, and he in God. 16So  x we have come to know and to believe the love that God has for us.  y God is love, and  z whoever abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him. 17By this  a is love perfected with us, so that  b we may have confidence for the day of judgment, because  c as he is so also are we in this world. 18There is no fear in love, but  d perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not  a been perfected in love. 19 e We love because he first loved us. 20 f If anyone says, “I love God,” and  g hates his brother, he is a liar; for he who does not love his brother whom he has seen cannot [1] love God  h whom he has not seen. 21And  i this commandment we have from him:  j whoever loves God must also love his brother.

Therefore  i let us leave  j the elementary doctrine of Christ and go on to maturity, not laying again a foundation of repentance  k from dead works and of faith toward God, 2and of  l instruction about washings, [1]  m the laying on of hands,  n the resurrection of the dead, and  o eternal judgment. 3And this we will do  p if God permits. 4For it is impossible, in the case of those  q who have once been enlightened, who have tasted  r the heavenly gift, and  s have shared in the Holy Spirit, 5and  t have tasted the goodness of the word of God and the powers of the age to come, 6and  u then have fallen away, to restore them again to repentance, since  v they are crucifying once again the Son of God to their own harm and holding him up to contempt. 7For  w land that has drunk the rain that often falls on it, and produces a crop useful to those for whose sake it is cultivated, receives a blessing from God. 8But  x if it bears thorns and thistles, it is worthless and near to being cursed,  y and its end is to be burned. 9Though we speak in this way, yet in your case, beloved, we feel sure of better things—things that belong to salvation. 10For  z God is not unjust so

„w Kalifornii nie trzeba mieć domu, bo nigdy nie jest zimno” mówi Slim i śmieje się radośnie. „Rany w życiu nie widziałaś takich ślicznych słonecznych dni, że przez większość roku nawet nie potrzeba płaszcza ani węgla do ogrzewania domu ani zimowych butów ani nic. I nigdy nie umiera się z gorąca w lecie tam na północy we frisco i Oakland i okolicach. Mówię ci, to jest miejsce do życia. I nie da się już pojechać dalej w Ameryce, zostaje tylko woda i Rosja”. „A co jest złego w Nowym Jorku?” warczy matka Sheili. „Och, nic!” Slim pokazuje na okno, „Ocean Atlantycki przynosi diabelne wiatry w zimie i jakiś szatański syn przenosi te wiatry na ulice, tak że człowiek może zamarznąć na progu. Bóg zawiesił słonce nad wyspą Manhattan, ale diabeł nie wpuści go w twoje okno, chyba że kupisz sobie mieszkanie w domu wysokim na mile, ale wtedy nawet nie można wyjść odetchnąć powietrzem, bo można spaść tę milę na dół, o ile w ogóle cię stać na takie mieszkanie. Można pracować, ale wtedy w ogóle nie ma się czasu, bo osiem godzin pracy to dwanaście bo trzeba doliczyć te wszystkie metra, autobusy, windy, tunele, promy, schody i znowu windy i jeszcze czekanie, bo to wielkie i beznadziejne miasto. Ale nie, w Nowym Jorku nie ma nic złego.

Put on  h the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against  i the schemes of the devil. 12For  j we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against  k the rulers, against the authorities, against  l the cosmic powers over  m this present darkness, against  n the spiritual forces of evil  o in the heavenly places. 13Therefore  p take up the whole armor of God, that you may be able to withstand in  q the evil day, and having done all, to stand firm. 14Stand therefore,  r having fastened on the belt of truth, and  s having put on the breastplate of righteousness, 15and,  t as shoes for your feet, having put on the readiness given by the gospel of peace. 16In all circumstances take up  u the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all  v the flaming darts of  w the evil one; 17and take  s the helmet of salvation, and  x the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God, 18praying  y at all times  z in the Spirit,  a with all prayer and supplication. To that end  b keep alert with all perseverance, making  c supplication for all the saints, 19and  d also for me, that words may be given to me in opening my mouth  e boldly to proclaim  f the mystery of the gospel, 20for which I  g am an ambassador  h in chains, that I may declare it boldly, as I ought to speak.

- Ja sobie sam wezmę twoje wytłumaczenie - odpowiedział Western - ściągaj kubrak! Obiję cię tak, ty półgłówku, jak jeszcześ nigdy w życiu nie był obity! Tu wybuchnął wymyślaniem, nie szczędząc wyrażeń, które uchodzą tylko między dwoma wiejskimi szlachcicami o odmiennej opinii. Przytaczał często miano pewnej części ciała, które zazwyczaj pojawia się we wszelkich konwersacjach wśród niższych sfer angielskiej szlachty, na wyścigach, w czasie walk kogutów i w innych publicznych miejscach spotkań. Podobne aluzje są również często przytaczane w formie żartu, który, moim zdaniem, jest zazwyczaj błędnie interpretowany. W rzeczywistości dowcip polega na tym, iż radzisz przeciwnikowi, aby pocałował ciebie w d... za to, że zagroziłeś kopnięciem go w d..., bo zaobserwowałem z całą pewnością, że nikt nigdy nie proponuje, żebyś ty go kopnął, ani nie występuje z propozycją pocałowania ciebie w omawianą część ciała. Może również wydać się zdumiewające, iż pomimo wielu tysięcy uprzejmych zaproszeń tego rodzaju, które musiał słyszeć każdy, kto przestawał z wiejską szlachtą, nikt - o ile wiem - nie był ani razu świadkiem, aby owo życzenie było spełnione - wyraźny przykład prowincjonalnego braku grzeczności, bo w miastach jest to powszechnie spotykaną ceremonią, którą najelegantsi panowie odprawiają codziennie w stosunku do swoich zwierzchników, wcale nawet o to nie proszeni. Tom Jones, t. 1, s. 297.

6Yet among  e the mature we do impart wisdom, although it is not  f a wisdom of this age or of the rulers of this age,  g who are doomed to pass away. 7But we impart a secret and hidden wisdom of God,  h which God decreed before the ages for our glory. 8None of  i the rulers of this age understood this, for  j if they had, they would not have crucified  k the Lord of glory. 9But, as it is written,      l “What no eye has seen, nor ear heard,         nor the heart of man imagined,     what God has  m prepared  n for those who love him”— 10these things  o God has revealed to us through the Spirit. For the Spirit searches everything, even  p the depths of God. 11For who knows a person’s thoughts  q except the spirit of that person, which is in him? So also no one comprehends the thoughts of God except the Spirit of God. 12Now  r we have received not  s the spirit of the world, but the Spirit who is from God, that we might understand the things freely given us by God. 13And we impart this  t in words not taught by human wisdom but taught by the Spirit,  u interpreting spiritual truths to those who are spiritual. [4] 14The natural person does not accept the things of the Spirit of God, for they are  v folly to him, and  w he is not able to understand them because they are spiritually discerned. 15The  x spiritual person judges all things, but is himself to be judged by no one. 16 y “For who has understood the mind of the Lord so as to instruct him?” But  z we have the mind of Christ.

David's Song of Thanks     8  f Oh give thanks to the LORD;  g call upon his name;          h make known his deeds among the peoples!     9 Sing to him, sing praises to him;         tell of all his wondrous works!     10 Glory in his holy name;         let the hearts of those who seek the LORD rejoice!     11  i Seek the LORD and his strength;         seek his presence continually!     12  j Remember the wondrous works that he has done,          k his miracles and the judgments he uttered,     13 O offspring of Israel his servant,         children of Jacob, his chosen ones!     14 He is the LORD our God;          l his judgments are in all the earth.     15 Remember his covenant forever,         the word that he commanded, for a thousand generations,     16 the covenant  m that he made with Abraham,         his sworn promise to Isaac,     17 which  n he confirmed to Jacob as a statute,         to Israel as an everlasting covenant,     18 saying,  o “To you I will give the land of Canaan,         as your portion for an inheritance.”     19 When you were  p few in number,         of little account, and  q sojourners in it,     20 wandering from nation to nation,         from one kingdom to another people,     21 he allowed no one to oppress them;         he  r rebuked kings on their account,     22 saying, “Touch not my anointed ones,         do my  s prophets no harm!”     23  t Sing to the LORD, all the earth!         Tell of his salvation from day to day.     24 Declare his glory among the nations,         his marvelous works among all the peoples!     25 For  u great is the LORD, and greatly to be praised,         and he is to be feared  v above all gods.     26 For all the gods of the peoples are worthless idols,          w but the LORD made the heavens.     27 Splendor and majesty are before him;         strength and joy are in his place.     28 Ascribe to the LORD, O families of the peoples,          x ascribe to the LORD glory and strength!     29 Ascribe to the LORD the glory due his name;         bring an offering and come before him!      y Worship the LORD in the splendor of holiness; [2]         30 tremble before him, all the earth;         yes, the world is established; it shall never be moved.     31  z Let the heavens be glad, and let the earth rejoice,         and let them say among the nations,  a “The LORD reigns!”     32  b Let the sea roar, and all that fills it;         let the field exult, and everything in it!     33 Then shall the trees of the forest sing for joy         before the LORD, for he comes to judge the earth.     34 Oh give thanks to the LORD, for he is good;         for his steadfast love endures forever! 35 c Say also:     “Save us, O God of our salvation,         and gather and deliver us from among the nations,     that we may give thanks to your holy name         and glory in your praise.     36  d Blessed be the LORD, the God of Israel,         from everlasting to everlasting!”  e Then all the people said, “Amen!” and praised the LORD.

W piaskownicy dziecko buduje zamki z piasku. Wciąż buduje nowe. Z podziwem przygląda się swojemu dziełu zaledwie przez moment, bo budowla zaraz się rozsypuje. Tak samo czas eksperymentuje na Ziemi. Pisze na niej historię świata, szkicuje wydarzenia, ludzi, a potem skreśla. Kipi tu życiem jak w kotle czarownicy, Aż pewnego dnia my zostajemy wymodelowani z tej samej kruchej materii co nasi przodkowie. Miota nami wiatr historii, unosi nas. Jest z nami. Ale w końcu nas porzuca. Jak za dotknięciem czarodziejskiej różdżki pojawiamy się i znikamy. Przez cały czas czekają inni i szykują się do zajęcia naszego miejsca. Bo nie mamy pod stopami stałego gruntu. Nie mamy nawet piasku. Sami jesteśmy piaskiem. (...) Nie ma takiego miejsca, w którym można by się schować przed czasem. Możemy ukrywać się przed królami i cesarzami, może zdołalibyśmy ukryć się przed Bogiem. Ale przed czasem schować się nie da. Czas dopadnie nas wszędzie, bo wszystko, co nas otacza, zanurzone jest w tym niespokojnym żywiole. (...) Czas nie mija, Hansie Thomasie. I nie cyka. To my mijamy, a cykają nasze zegarki. Tak samo cicho i nieubłaganie jak słońce, wstające na wschodzie i zachodzące na zachodzie, czas przeżera historię. Niszczy wielkie cywilizacje, podgryza dawne pomniki, pochłania pokolenie za pokoleniem. Dlatego właśnie mówimy o "zębie czasu". Bo czas nadgryza i przeżuwa, a między jego trzonowcami jesteśmy my. (...) Przez ułamek chwili jesteśmy cząstką tego ustawicznie zmieniającego się mrowiska. Biegamy po ziemi, jakby to było najbardziej oczywistą rzeczą. Widziałeś to mrowie ludzi na Akropolu! Ale to wszystko kiedyś zniknie. Zniknie i zostanie zastąpione nowym mrowiskiem. Bo wciąż ludzie czekają w kolejce. Kształty pojawiają się i znikają. Maski przybywają i odchodzą. Wciąż pojawiają się nowe wynalazki. Żaden temat się nie powtarza, żadna kompozycja nie układa się dwa razy tak samo... Nie ma nic bardziej skomplikowanego i cenniejszego od człowieka, synku. A mimo to traktuje się nas jak tanie świecidełka! (...) Chodzimy sobie po ziemi jak te figurki w śmiesznej bajce. Kiwamy głowami jak pajacyki i uśmiechamy się do siebie. Jakbyśmy sobie powtarzali: "Cześć, żyjemy razem! znajdujemy się w tej samej rzeczywistości - czyli w tej samej bajce..." Czy to nie zdumiewające, Jansie Thomasie? Żyjemy razem na jednej z planet we wszechświecie. Aż nagle zostajemy usunięci z boiska. Hokus-pokus i już nas nie ma. (...) Gdybyśmy żyli w innym stuleciu dzielilibyśmy życie z innymi ludźmi. Dziś możemy kiwać głowami i uśmiechać się na powitanie tylko do ludzi nam współczesnych. Możemy mówić: "Cześć! Jakie to dziwne, że żyjemy akurat w tym samym czasie". Możemy też poklepać kogoś po plecach, i zawołać "Witaj, duszo!" (...) Żyjemy, słyszysz? Ale tylko teraz. Mówimy, że istniejemy. Tymczasem spycha się nas na bok i wciska w mrok historii. Bo jesteśmy jednorazowi. Uczestniczymy w odwiecznej maskaradzie, w której maski pojawiają się i znikają. Długi długi rząd masek... Czyż nie zasłużyliśmy na coś lepszego, Hansie Thomasie? Ty, ja zasłużyliśmy, by nasze imiona zostały wyryte na wieczność, by pozostał po nich ślad w tej wielkiej piaskownicy.

sighed. “I can’t say that you weren’t expected.” “I’m just going to be walking around here and taking some measurements. It says here… you own eighty acres? That is one of the most gorgeous mansions I have ever seen,” he rambled on. “It must have cost you millions. I could never afford such a beauty. Well, heck, for that matter I couldn’t afford the millions of dollars in taxes a house like this would assess, let alone such a pricey property. Do you have an accountant?” Zo opened her mouth to respond, but he continued, “For an estate this size, I would definitely have one.” “I do have an accountant,” she cut in, with frustration. “Furthermore, I have invested a lot of money bringing this mansion up to speed. You can see my investment is great.” “Of course, it would be. The fact of the matter is, Mrs. Kane, a lot of people are in over their heads in property. You still have to pay up, or we take the place. Well, I’ll get busy now. Pay no mind to me.” He walked on, taking notes. “Clairrrrre!” Zo called as soon as she entered the house. “Bring your cell phone!” Two worry-filled months went by and many calls were made to lawyers, before Zoey finally picked one that made her feel confident. And then the letter came with the totals and the due date. “There is no way we can pay this, Mom, even if we sold off some of our treasures, because a lot of them are contracted to museums anyway. I am feeling awfully poor all of a sudden, and insecure.” “Yes, and I did some research, thinking I’d be forced to sell. It’s unlikely that anyone else around here can afford this place. It looks like they are going to get it all; they aren’t just charging for this year. What we have here is a value about equal to a little country. And all the new construction sites for housing developments suddenly popping up on this side of the river, does not help. Value is going up.” Zo put her head in her hands. “Ohhh, oh, oh, oh!” “Yeah, bring out the ice-cream and cake. I need comforting,” sighed Claire. The cell phone rang. “Yes, tonight? You guys have become pretty good to us, haven’t you?! You know, Bob, Mom and I thought we were just going to pig out on ice cream and cake. We found out we are losing this estate and are going to be poor again and we are bummed out.” There was a long pause. “No, that’s okay, I understand. Yeah, okay, bye.” “Well?” Zo ask dryly. “He was appropriately sorry, and he got off the phone fast, saying he remembered he had other business to take care of. Do you want to cry? I do…” “I’ll get the cake and dish the ice cream. You make our tea and we’ll cry together.” A pitter patter began to drum on the window. “Rain again. It seems softer though, dear.” “I thought you said this was going to be a softer rain!” It started to pour. “At least this is not a thunder storm… What was that?” “Thunder,” replied Claire, unmoved and resigned. An hour had gone by when there was a rapping at the door. “People rarely use the doorbell, ever notice that?” Zo asked on the way to the door. She opened it to reveal two wet guys holding a pizza, salad, soft drink, and giant chocolate chip cookies in a plastic container. In a plastic

Niektórym się wydaje, że czubkiem można zostać ot tak, ni z gruchy, ni z pietruchy. Ze na przykład najspokojniej w świecie spacerujesz sobie z rodziną, aż tu nagle doskakujesz do drzewa i zaczynasz je kopać, dopadasz wózeczka i plujesz dzidziusiowi w ryło, podnosisz nogę i obsikujesz kulę kaleki, jednym słowem - odbija ci. Albo inaczej, zwyczajnie szykujesz się do spania, ucałowałeś rodziców, przyjaciół, żonę, dzieci, meble, oszczędności, ubranka, bojler, umywalkę, podeszwy swoich butów, muszlę klozetową. Po prostu dostajesz hyzia. Nie, nie i jeszcze raz nie. To może jeszcze inaczej - przeglądasz pocztę, popijając poranną kawę (zachowanie w normie, tylko trochę niezdrowe dla pęcherza) i trafiasz na wredny list na swój temat, anonim. Sklecono go przy pomocy liter powycinanych z różnych piśmideł, których nie czytujesz, pośrednio zmuszając cię tym sposobem do ich lektury. - Łajdaki! Nie uda się wam! - wydzierasz się z pianą na ustach i ciach! dostajesz kuku na muniu. Bo zachodzące w mózgownicy procesy chemiczne uległy zakłóceniu, jako że bolą cię zęby. Albo dlatego, że w dzieciństwie mamusia i tatuś nie kochali cię dość mocno, bo słońce grzeje coraz słabiej, a księżyc wchodzi przez okno dwanaście po północy. Nie. nie. nie. NIE. NIE NIE NIE NIE NIE NIE NIE NIE NIE NIE NIE NIE NIE NIE NIE NIE NIE NIE NIE NIE NIE NIE NIE NIE NIE NIE NIE NIE. Kto jak kto. ale ja znam się na tym i mogę stwierdzić, że ci, którzy tak mówią, po prostu bredzą. Nigdy w życiu nie zająłbym tak eksponowanej pozycji, na samym szczycie hierarchii chorób umysłowych, gdybym nie poświęcał każdej sekundy na ciężką, wytrwałą, drobiazgową pracę nad sobą i swoimi uzdolnieniami. Jeśli człowiek nie stawia sobie wymagań, to do niczego nie dojdzie. Dzisiejsza młodzież chciałaby dostać świra - bo to całkiem fajne - ale bez tego wysiłku, który jest niezbędny. Owszem, być szurniętym to nic trudnego. Ale żeby zostać prawdziwym, wielkim, pierwszorzędnym szaleńcem, na to - wierzcie mi - trzeba się nieźle napocić. A czasami trochę wypić: nie jestem wymagający, trzy kieliszki wystarczą. Ale przede wszystkim, przede wszystkim, przede wszystkim - z czego nie zdajemy sobie sprawy i czego powtarzać nigdy dość - świrowanie to wynik zbiorowego wysiłku! Tak, koleżanki i koledzy, zatkało was, co? "Jak to? Wariowanie to zajęcie grupowe? Ten się chyba z głupim widział!" No dalej, lżyjcie mnie, nie żałujcie sobie. Och, przyznaję, że niełatwo to znieść, ale kiedy za twoimi plecami stoi murem zespól, wszystko staje się prostsze. A ja, czego nie należy zapominać, mam najlepszą ekipę na świecie. Byłem we wszelakich szpitalach, u najróżniejszych psychiatrów. Wszyscy połamali sobie na mnie zęby. Najbardziej nieustępliwi, którzy od pierwszego spotkania wyrokowali z okrutnym uśmieszkiem: "To nic takiego, nic poważnego, raz dwa wróci pan do siebie." No i co? Figa z makiem. Jak wysiadają ci mądrale, teraz, gdy nikt, nawet najciemniejsza z pielęgniarek nie może zaprzeczyć, że jestem przykładem najwspanialszego, najelegantszego, najosobliwszego obłędu w stylu francuskim z końca dwudziestego wieku? Ale ja nigdy, przenigdy nie zapominam, nawet gdy piję samotnie, że udało mi się dzięki innym, dzięki mojemu zespołowi. To on przypominał mi nieustannie, że świat jest przeciw mnie, że ludzie chcą moich pieniędzy i mojej śmierci, że nie spoczną, dopóki nie wymażą mnie z listy żyjących. Dziękuję. Dziękuję wam wszystkim.

Lfr Jp tZ~ LLtI~ A righteous [woman] who walks in [her] integrity-how blessed are [her] sons after [her]. -PROVERBS 20:7 My Bob often says, "Just do what you say you are going to do!" This has been our battle cry for more than 25 years. People get into relational problems because they forget to keep their promises. It's so easy to make a verbal promise for the moment and then grapple with the execution of that promise later. Sometimes we underestimate the consequences of not keeping the promise flippantly made in a moment of haste. Many times we aren't even aware we have made a promise. Someone says, "I'll call you at 7:00 tonight"; "I'll drop by before noon"; or "I'll call you to set up a breakfast meeting on Wednesday." Then the weak excuses begin to follow. "I called but no one answered" (even though you have voice mail and no message was left). "I got tied up and forgot." "I was too tired." I suggest that we don't make promises if we aren't going to keep them. The person on the other end would prefer not hearing a promise that isn't going to be kept. Yes, there will be times when the execution of a promise will have to be rescheduled, but be up front with the person when you call to change the time. We aren't perfect, but we can mentor proper relationship skills to our friends and family by exhibiting accountability in our words of promise. We teach people that we are trustworthy-and how they can be trusted too. You'll be pleased at how people will pleasantly be surprised when you keep your promises. As my friend Florence Littauer says, "It takes so little to be above average." When you develop a reputation for being a woman who does what she says, your life will have more meaning and people will enjoy being around you.

Olo-keZ G-- a tc There is an appointed time for everything. And there is a time for every event under heaven. -ECCLESIASTES 3:1 What would we do without our day planners? I have a large one for my desk and a carry-all that goes with me. I don't know how a person functions without some type of organizer. I just love it; it truly has become my daily-calendar bible. I take it with me everywhere. My whole life is in that book. Each evening I peek in to see what tomorrow has to bring. I just love to see a busy calendar; it makes me feel so alive. I've got this to do and that to do. Then I come upon a day that has all white space. Not one thing to do. What, oh what, will I do to fill the space and time? That's the way I used to think and plan. All my spaces had appointments written down, and many times they even overlapped. I now plan for white spaces. I even plan ahead weeks or months and black out "saved for me or my family" days. I have begun to realize that there are precious times for myself and my loved ones. Bob and I really try to protect these saved spaces just for us. We may not go anywhere or do anything out of the ordinary, but it's our special time. We can do anything we want: sleep in, stay out late, go to lunch, read a book, go to a movie, or take a nap. I really look forward with great anticipation to when these white spaces appear on my calendar. I've been so impressed when I've read biographies of famous people. Many of them are controllers of their own time. They don't let outsiders dictate their schedules. Sure, there are times when things have to be done on special days, but generally that isn't the case. When we begin to control our calendars, we will find that our lives are more enjoyable and that the tensions of life are more manageable. Make those white spaces your friend, not your enemy.

We perceive our environment in three dimensions, but we don’t actually live in a 3-D world. 3-D is static. A snapshot. We have to add a fourth dimension to begin to describe the nature of our existence. The 4-D tesseract doesn’t add a spatial dimension. It adds a temporal one. It adds time, a stream of 3-D cubes, representing space as it moves along time’s arrow. This is best illustrated by looking up into the night sky at stars whose brilliance took fifty light-years to reach our eyes. Or five hundred. Or five billion. We’re not just looking into space, we’re looking back through time. Our path through this 4-D spacetime is our worldline (reality), beginning with our birth and ending with our death. Four coordinates (x, y, z, and t [time]) locate a point within the tesseract. And we think it stops there, but that’s only true if every outcome is inevitable, if free will is an illusion, and our worldline is solitary. What if our worldline is just one of an infinite number of worldlines, some only slightly altered from the life we know, others drastically different? The Many-Worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics posits that all possible realities exist. That everything which has a probability of happening is happening. Everything that might have occurred in our past did occur, only in another universe. What if that’s true? What if we live in a fifth-dimensional probability space? What if we actually inhabit the multiverse, but our brains have evolved in such a way as to equip us with a firewall that limits what we perceive to a single universe? One worldline. The one we choose, moment to moment. It makes sense if you think about it. We couldn’t possibly contend with simultaneously observing all possible realities at once. So how do we access this 5-D probability space? And if we could, where would it take us? — Leighton

Chyba prawie każdy z nas czuwał kiedyś przed wschodem słońca, już to po jednej z owych bezsennych nocy, przyprawiającej nas niemal o zakochanie się w śmierci, już to po jednej z owych nocy lęku i szpetnych uciech, gdy przez komórki mózgu przeciągają majaki, potworniejsze jeszcze od rzeczywistości, a ożywione tym intensywnym życiem utajonym we wszelkiej groteskowości, które nadaje również gotykowi trwałą siłę życiową, gdyż sztuka ta wydaje się przede wszystkim sztuką tych, których dusze zasępia choroba marzenia. Z wolna białe palce wsuwają się przez firanki i zdają się drżeć. Niby czarne, fantastyczne postacie - nieme cienie pełzają po kątach pokoju i tam się układają. Na dworze słychać szelest ptaków w listowiu lub kroki ludzi idących do roboty albo jęki i westchnienia wiatru, który zlatuje ze wzgórza i okrąża cichy dom, jakby się bał zbudzić śpiącego, a jednak musiał odwołać sen z jego fioletowej jaskini. Zasłona po zasłonie z cienkiej przejrzystej gazy z wolna się podnosi, rzeczy odzyskują kształty i barwy i widzimy, jak nadchodzący dzień oddaje światu dawne jego oblicze. Blade zwierciadła znów otrzymują swe życie odtwórcze. Wygasłe świece stoją, gdzie je pozostawiliśmy, a obok nich leży na wpół rozcięta książka, którą czytaliśmy, lub drutem opleciony kwiat, który nosiliśmy na balu, albo list, który obawialiśmy się przeczytać lub czytaliśmy zbyt często. Wszystko wydaje się nie zmienione. Ze złudnych cieni nocy wyłania się prawdziwe, znane nam życie. Musimy je podjąć, gdzie zostało przerwane, i ogarnia nas uczucie straszne - uczucie konieczności zmuszającej do ciągłego zużywania sił w nużącym kole codziennych wydarzeń lub też porywa nas dzika tęsknota, by pewnego poranka oczy nasze otworzyły się na świat, co w mroku na nowo został stworzony ku naszej radości, na świat, w którym rzeczy mają barwy i kształty nowe albo zmienione lub też kryją w sobie nowe tajemnice; na świat, w którym przeszłość nie zajmowałaby wcale miejsce albo bardzo mało, a w każdym razie nie w świadomej formie powinności czy skruchy, bo nawet wspomnienie radości posiada swą gorycz jak wspomnienie rozkoszy - swój ból.

Oto masz, drogi Maksie, dwie książki i kamyk. Zawsze starałem się znaleźć na Twoje urodziny coś, co wskutek swej obojętności nie zmieniałoby się, nie gubiło, nie psuło i nie mogło być zapomniane. A dumając potem miesiącami, znów nie widziałem innego ratunku, niż wysłać Ci książkę. Z książkami jest jednak utrapienie, z jednej strony są obojętne, a potem znów z drugiej o tyle bardziej interesujące, potem zaś pociągnęło mnie do tych obojętnych tylko przekonanie, które bynajmniej nic we mnie nie rozstrzygnęło, w końcu zaś, ciągle jeszcze z odmiennym przekonaniem, trzymałem w ręku książkę, która paliła tak tylko z ciekawości. Kiedyś nawet z rozmysłem zapomniałem o Twoich urodzinach, co było wszak lepsze niż posłanie książki, ale dobre nie było. Dlatego wysyłam Ci teraz ten kamyczek i będę Ci go wysyłał póki naszego życia. Będziesz go trzymać w kieszeni, ochroni Cię, wsadzisz do szuflady, również nie będzie bezczynny, ale jeśli go wyrzucisz, będzie najlepiej. Bo wiesz, Maksie, moja miłość do Ciebie jest większa niż ja sam i bardziej ja w niej mieszkam niż ona we mnie, i ma też kiepską podporę w mojej niepewnej istocie, tym sposobem jednak dostanie w kamyczku skalne mieszkanie i niechby to było tylko w szczelinie bruku na Schalengasse. Od dawna już ratowała mnie ona częściej niż sądzisz, a właśnie teraz, gdy wiem o sobie mniej niż kiedykolwiek i odczuwam siebie z pełną świadomością jedynie w półśnie, tylko tak nadzwyczaj lekko, tylko teraz jeszcze - krążę tak niczym z czarnymi wnętrznościami - dobrze zatem zrobi ciśnięcie w świat takiego kamyka i oddzielenie w ten sposób pewnego od niepewnego. Czym są wobec tego książki! Książka zaczyna Cię nudzić i już nie przestanie albo porwie ją twoje dziecko, albo, jak ta książka Walsera, rozlatuje się już, kiedy ją dostajesz. Przy kamyku przeciwnie, nic nie może Cię znudzić, taki kamyk nie może też ulec zniszczeniu, a jeśli już, to dopiero po długim czasie, także zapomnieć go nie można, ponieważ nie masz obowiązku o nim pamiętać, w końcu nie możesz go też nigdy ostatecznie zgubić, gdyż na pierwszej lepszej żwirowej drodze znajdziesz go z powrotem, bo jest to właśnie pierwszy lepszy kamyk. A jeszcze nie mógłbym mu zaszkodzić większą pochwałą, szkody z pochwał powstają bowiem tylko wtedy, gdy pochwała chwaloną rzecz rozgniata, niszczy lub zapodziewa. Ale kamyczek? Krótko mówiąc, wyszukałem Ci najpiękniejszy prezent urodzinowy i przekazuję Ci go z pocałunkiem, który ma wyrażać niezdarne podziękowanie za to, ze jesteś.

I’d like to see some identification,” growled the inspector. I fully expected Barrons to toss O’Duffy from the shop on his ear. He had no legal compulsion to comply and Barrons doesn’t suffer fools lightly. In fact, he doesn’t suffer them at all, except me, and that’s only because he needs me to help him find the Sinsar Dubh. Not that I’m a fool. If I’ve been guilty of anything, it’s having the blithely sunny disposition of someone who enjoyed a happy childhood, loving parents, and long summers of lazy-paddling ceiling fans and small-town drama in the Deep South which-while it’s great—doesn’t do a thing to prepare you for live beyond that. Barrons gave the inspector a wolfish smile. “Certainly.” He removed a wallet from the inner pocket of his suit. He held it out but didn’t let go. “And yours, Inspector.” O’Duffy’s jaw tightened but he complied. As the men swapped identifications, I sidled closer to O’Duffy so I could peer into Barrons’ wallet. Would wonders never cease? Just like a real person, he had a driver’s license. Hair: black. Eyes: brown. Height: 6’3”. Weight: 245. His birthday—was he kidding?—Halloween. He was thirty-one years old and his middle initial was Z. I doubted he was an organ donor. “You’ve a box in Galway as your address, Mr. Barrons. Is that where you were born?” I’d once asked Barrons about his lineage, he’d told me Pict and Basque. Galway was in Ireland, a few hours west of Dublin. “No.” “Where?” “Scotland.” “You don’t sound Scottish.” “You don’t sound Irish. Yet here you are, policing Ireland. But then the English have been trying to cram their laws down their neighbors’ throats for centuries, haven’t they, Inspector?” O’Duffy had an eye tic. I hadn’t noticed it before. “How long have you been in Dublin?” “A few years. You?” “I’m the one asking the questions.” “Only because I’m standing here letting you.” “I can take you down to the station. Would you prefer that?” “Try.” The one word dared the Garda to try, by fair means or foul. The accompanying smile guaranteed failure. I wondered what he’d do if the inspector attempted it. My inscrutable host seems to possess a bottomless bag of tricks. O’Duffy held Barrons’ gaze longer than I expected him to. I wanted to tell him there was no shame in looking away. Barrons has something the rest of us don’t have. I don’t know what it is, but I feel it all the time, especially when we’re standing close. Beneath the expensive clothes, unplaceable accent, and cultural veneer, there’s something that never crawled all the way out of the swamp. It didn’t want to. It likes it there.

Perhaps I ought to stuff up these sleeping things and go to bed. But I’m still too wide awake I’d only writhe about. If I had got him on the phone if we’d talked pleasantly I should have calmed down. He doesn’t give a fuck. Here I am torn to pieces by heartbreaking memories I call him and he doesn’t answer. Don’t bawl him out don’t begin by bawling him out that would muck up everything. I dread tomorrow. I shall have to be ready before four o’clock I shan’t have had a wink of sleep I’ll go out and buy petits fours that Francis will tread into the carpet he’ll break one of my little ornaments he’s not been properly brought up that child as clumsy as his father who’ll drop ash all over the place and if I say anything at all Tristan will blow right up he never let me keep my house as it ought to be yet after all it’s enormously important. Just now it’s perfect the drawing room polished shining like the moon used to be. By seven tomorrow evening it’ll be utterly filthy I’ll have to spring-clean it even though I’ll be all washed out. Explaining everything to him from a to z will wash me right out. He’s tough. What a clot I was to drop Florent for him! Florent and I we understood one another he coughed up I lay on my back it was cleaner than those capers where you hand out tender words to one another. I’m too softhearted I thought it was a terrific proof of love when he offered to marry me and there was Sylvie the ungrateful little thing I wanted her to have a real home and a mother no one could say a thing against a married woman a banker’s wife. For my part it gave me a pain in the ass to play the lady to be friends with crashing bores. Not so surprising that I burst out now and then. “You’re setting about it the wrong way with Tristan” Dédé used to tell me. Then later on “I told you so!” It’s true I’m headstrong I take the bit between my teeth I don’t calculate. Maybe I should have learned to compromise if it hadn’t been for all those disappointments. Tristan made me utterly sick I let him know it. People can’t bear being told what you really think of them. They want you to believe their fine words or at least to pretend to. As for me I’m clear-sighted I’m frank I tear masks off. The dear kind lady simpering “So we love our little brother do we?” and my collected little voice: “I hate him.” I’m still that proper little woman who says what she thinks and doesn’t cheat. It made my guts grind to hear him holding forth and all those bloody fools on their knees before him. I came clumping along in my big boots I cut their fine words down to size for them—progress prosperity the future of mankind happiness peace aid for the underdeveloped countries peace upon earth. I’m not a racist but don’t give a fuck for Algerians Jews Negroes in just the same way I don’t give a fuck for Chinks Russians Yanks Frenchmen. I don’t give a fuck for humanity what has it ever done for me I ask you. If they are such bleeding fools as to murder one another bomb one another plaster one another with napalm wipe one another out I’m not going to weep my eyes out. A million children have been massacred so what? Children are never anything but the seed of bastards it unclutters the planet a little they all admit it’s overpopulated don’t they? If I were the earth it would disgust me, all this vermin on my back, I’d shake it off. I’m quite willing to die if they all die too. I’m not going to go all soft-centered about kids that mean nothing to me. My own daughter’s dead and they’ve stolen my son from me.

By thinking that other people are inferior to oneself. By feeling that one has some innate superiority it may be wealth, or rank, a straight nose, or the portrait of a grandfather by Romney - for there is no end to the pathetic devices of the human imagination over other people. Hence the enormous importance to a patriarch who has to conquer, who has to rule, of feeling that great numbers of people, half the human race indeed, are by nature inferior to himself. It must indeed be one of the chief sources of his power. But let me turn the light of this observation on to real life, I thought. Does it help to explain some of those psychological puzzles that one notes in the margin of daily life? Does it explain my astonishment the other day when Z, most humane, most modest of men, taking up some book by Rebecca West and reading a passage in it, exclaimed, 'The arrant feminist! She says that men are snobs!' The exclamation, to me so surprising for why was Miss West an arrant feminist for making a possibly true if uncomplimentary statement about the other sex? - was not merely the cry of wounded vanity; it was a protest against some infringement of his power to believe in himself. Women have served all these centuries as looking-glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size. Without that power probably the earth would still be swamp and jungle. The glories of all our wars would be unknown. We should still be scratching the outlines of deer on the remains of mutton bones and bartering flints for sheep skins or whatever simple ornament took our unsophisticated taste. Supermen and Fingers of Destiny would never have existed. The Tsar and the Kaiser would never have worn crowns or lost them. Whatever may be their use in civilized societies, mirrors are essential to all violent and heroic action. That is why Napoleon and Mussolini both insist so emphatically upon the inferiority of women, for if they were not inferior, they would cease to enlarge. That serves to explain in part the necessity that women so often are to men. And it serves to explain how restless they are under her criticism; how impossible it is for her to say to them this book is bad, this picture is feeble, or whatever it may be, without giving far more pain and musing far more anger than a man would do who gave the same criticism. For if she begins to tell the truth, the figure in the looking-glass shrinks; his fitness for life is diminished. How is he to go on giving judgement, civilizing natives, making laws, writing books, dressing up and speechifying at banquets, unless he can see himself at breakfast and at dinner at least twice the size he really is? So I reflected, crumbling my bread and stirring my coffee and now and again looking at the people in the street. The looking-glass vision is of supreme importance because it charges the vitality; it stimulates the nervous system. Take it away and man may die, like the drug fiend deprived of his cocaine. Under the spell of that illusion, I thought, looking out of the window, half the people on the pavement are striding to work. They put on their hats and coats in the morning under its agreeable rays. They start the day confident, braced, believing themselves desired at Miss Smith's tea party; they say to themselves as they go into the room, I am the superior of half the people here, and it is thus that they speak with that self-confidence, that self-assurance, which have had such profound consequences in public life and lead to such curious notes in the margin of the private mind.

Co się tyczy [paryskich] bulwarów, to w ogóle nie można po nich chodzić. Wszyscy zasuwają z burdelu do kliniki, a z kliniki z powrotem do burdelu. A dokoła jest tyle trypra, że ledwie można złapać dech. Kiedyś wypiłem trochę i poszedłem Polami Elizejskimi - a dokoła było tyle trypra, że ledwie powłóczyłem nogami. Zobaczyłem dwoje znajomych: on i ona, oboje jedzą kasztany, bardzo starzy oboje. Gdzieś ich już widziałem? W gazetach? Nie pamiętam, ale poznałem: Louis Aragon i Elsa Triolet. "Ciekawe - błysnęła mi myśl - skąd idą: z kliniki do burdelu czy z burdelu do kliniki?" I sam sobie przerwałem: "Wstydziłbyś się. Jesteś w Paryżu, a nie w Chrapuszowie. Zadaj im lepiej pytania o sprawy społeczne, o najbardziej palące sprawy." Doganiam Louisa Aragona i zaczynam mówić, otwierając przed nim serce. Mówię, że jestem zdesperowany, ale nie mam najmniejszych wątpliwości, że umieram od nadmiaru węwnętrznych sprzeczności, i dużo różnych takich. A on spogląda na mnie, salutuje mi jak stary weteran, bierze swą Elsę pod rękę i idzie dalej. Ja znów ich doganiam i zwracam się tym razem już nie do Louisa, lecz do Triolet. Mówię, że umieram na brak wrażeń, że gdy przestaję rozpaczać, ogarniają mnie wątpliwości, gdy tymczasem w chwilach rozpaczy w nic nie wątpiłem... A ona tymczasem, jak stara kurwa, poklepała mnie po policzku, wzięła pod rączkę swojego Aragona i poszła dalej. Potem, rzecz jasna, dowiedziałem się z prasy, że to wcale nie byli oni, tylko Jean-Paul Sartre i Simone de Baeuvoir, ale jaka to teraz dla mnie różnica! Poszedłem do Notre-Dame i wynająłem tam mansardę. Mansarda, facjatka, oficyna, antresola, strych - ciągle to wszystko mylę i nie widzę różnicy. Krótko mówiąc, wynająłem miejsce, w którym można leżeć, pisać i palić fajkę. Wypaliłem dwanaście fajek i odesłałem do "Revue de Paris" mój esej pod francuskim tytułem "Szyk i blask - immer elegant". Esej na temat miłości. A wiecie przecież, jak trudno jest we Francji pisać o miłości. Dlatego że wszystko, co dotyczy miłości, zostało już we Francji dawno napisane. Tam wiedzą o miłości wszystko, a u nas nic. Spróbujcie u nas komuś ze średnim wykształceniem pokazać twardy szankier i zapytać: "Jaki to szankier, twardy czy miękki!" - na pewno strzeli: "Jasne, że miękki." A jak zobaczy miękki, to już zupełnie straci orientację. A tam - nie. Tam mogą nie wiedzieć, ile kosztuje dziurawcówka, ale jeśli już szankier jest miękki, to będzie takim dla każdego i nikt go nie nazwie twardym... Krótko mówiąc, "Revue de Paris" zwróciło mi esej pod pretekstem, że został napisany po rosyjsku, a francuski był tylko tytuł. Wypaliłem więc na antresoli jeszcze trzynaście fajek i stworzyłem nowy esej, również poświęcony miłości. Tym razem cały tekst od początku do końca był napisany po francusku, a rosyjski był jedynie tytuł: "Skurwysyństwo jako najwyższe i ostatnie stadium kurestwa." I posłałem tekst do "Revue de Paris". [Znów mi go zwrócili.] Styl, powiedzieli, znakomity, natomiast główna myśl - fałszywa. Być może, powiedzieli, da się to zastosować do warunków rosyjskich, ale nie francuskich. Skurwysyństwo, powiedzieli, wcale nie jest u nas stadium najwyższym i bynajmniej nie ostatnim. U was, Rosjan, powiedzieli, kurestwo, które osiągnie granice skurwysyństwa, zostanie przymusowo zlikwidowane i zastąpione przez programowy onanizm. Natomiast u nas, Francuzów, nie jest wprawdzie w przyszłości wykluczone organiczne zrastanie się pewnych elementów rosyjskiego onanizmu, potraktowanego bardziej swobodnie - z naszą ojczystą sodomią, będącą efektem transformacji skurwysyństwa za pośrednictwem kazirodztwa; jednakże owo zrastanie się nastąpi na gruncie naszego tradycyjnego kurestwa, mając charakter absolutnie permanentny.