An essential portion of any artist's labor is not creation so much as invocation
Art is no longer anything more than a kind of meta-language for banality.
We live in a world where there is more and more information, and less and less meaning.
Postmodernity is said to be a culture of fragmentary sensations, eclectic nostalgia, disposable simulacra, and promiscuous superficiality, in which the traditionally valued qualities of depth, coherence, meaning, originality, and authenticity are evacuated or dissolved amid the random swirl of empty signals.
Illusion is no longer possible, because the real is no longer possible.
What I am, I don't know. I am the simulacrum of myself.
History that repeats itself turns to farce. Farce that repeats itself turns to history.
I am grateful for the gifts of intelligence, love, wonder and laughter. You can't say it wasn't interesting.
We arrive with our. . . 'baggage' and for a while they're brilliant, they're 'Baggage Handlers. ' We say, 'Where's your baggage?' They deny all knowledge of it. . . 'They're in love'. . . they have none. Then. . . just as you're relaxing. . . a Great Big Juggernaut arrives. . . with their baggage. It Got Held Up. One of the greatest myths men have about women is that we overpack.
Jenks laughed, taking to the air and saying, “Give it up, FIB man. It’ll take more than you to get her out. Remember what Ivy and I did to your finest last spring? Add Rachel to that, and you can say your prayers. ” From behind me came Edden’s dry “You think Ivy wants another stint as a candy striper?
True happiness comes from the realization that God has already made available everything we will ever need.