And where there is no Echo there is no description of space or love. There is only silence.
Even the closest relationships that I have I know could potentially fall away. That's not to speak pessimistically or negatively about those relationships. In a weird way, it's the opposite. I value them.
Because the enormous narcissism of their parents deprived Will and Tom of suitable role models, both brothers learned to identify with absence. Consequently, even if something beneficial fortuitously entered their lives they immediately treated it as temporary. By the time they were teenagers they were already accustomed to a discontinuous lifestyle marked by constant threats of abandonment and the lack of any emotional stability. Unfortunately, "accustomed to" here is really synonymous with "damaged by.
Absolutely nothing visible to the eye provides a reason for or even evidence of those terrifying shifts which can in a matter of moments reconstitute a simple path into an extremely complicated one.
I think that's what finally stopped me. I slid right to the edge. My legs were hanging over. And I could feel it too. I don't know how. There was no wind, no sound, no change of temperature. There was just this terrible emptiness reaching up for me.
Love of love written by the broken hearted, love of life written by the dead.
Physics depends on a universe infinitely centred on an equals sign.
Make no mistake, those who write long books have nothing to say. Of course those who write short books have even less to say.
Do not wake me from this slumber, but be assured that just as I have wept much, I have also wandered many roads with my thoughts.
House of Leaves is certainly about the unsettling nature of fear - and it was my aim to address that - but its also about recovering from fear.
One forgets that one is one. I must try to remember this.
Prometheus, thief of light, giver of light, bound by the gods, must have been a book.
Scientists estimate the universe unfolded from its state of infinite destiny* - a moment commonly referred to as "the big bang" - approximately 1.3-2 x 10^10 years ago. *Typo: "destiny" should read "density.
Tom gets by, Navidson succeeds. Tom just wants to be, Navidson must become. And yet despite such obvious differences, anyone who looks past Tom's wide grin and considers his eyes will find surprisingly deep pools of sorrow. Which is how we know they are brothers, because like Tom, Navidson's eyes share the same water.
I must read. I must read. I must read.
It is hungry, it it immortal. Worse, it knows nothing of whim.
Very soon he will vanish completely in the wings of his own wordless stanza. [ ] but his stanza is not completely empty [ * ]
Why did god create a dual universe? So he might say ‘Be not like me. I am alone.' And it might be heard.
Scars are the paler pain of survival received unwillingly and displayed in the language of injury.
Sublime is something you choke on after a shot of tequila.
I still get nightmares. In fact, I get them so often I should be used to them by now. I'm not. No one ever really gets used to nightmares.
The finest act of seeing is necessarily always the act of not seeing something else.
Anger is one way to respond to fear. I say one way because responses are categorically multiple.
No one ever really gets used to nightmares.
Heart may still be the fire in hearth but I'm suddenly too cold to continue, and besides, there's no hearth here anyway and it's the end of June. Thursday. Almost noon. And all the buttons on my corduroy coat are gone. I don't know why. I'm sorry Hailey. I don't know what to do.
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