Reading begets reading.
A successful suicide demands good organization and a cool head, both of which are usually incompatible with the suicidal state of mind.
This time I read the title of the painting: Girl Interrupted at Her Music. Interrupted at her music: as my life had been, interrupted in the music of being seventeen, as her life had been, snatched and fixed on canvas: one moment made to stand still and to stand for all the other moments, whatever they would be or might have been. What life can recover from that?
Are you crazy? It's a common phrase, I know. But it means something particular to me: the tunnels, the security screens, the plastic forks, the shimmering, ever-shifting borderline that like all boundaries beckons and asks to be crossed. I do not want to cross it again.
Tell me that you don’t take that blade and drag it across your skin and pray for the courage to press down.
Something about the goat dancing made me want to cry.
Freedom was the price of privacy.
The greatest of evils and the worst of crimes is poverty.
I thought dying for your country was the worst thing that could happen to you. I think killing for your country can be a lot worse. Because that's the memory that haunts.
Someone's running your life. Most of us are on the throne of our own lives. Jesus wants to sit on the throne of your life.
If theory is the role of the architect, then such beautiful proofs are the role of the craftsman. Of course, as with the great renaissance artists, such roles are not mutually exclusive. A great cathedral has both structural impressiveness and delicate detail. A great mathematical theory should similarly be beautiful on both large and small scales.