Dr. Strange Beard

(...) In a battle between two bullshitters, the one who cares about the outcome will always lose to the one who doesn't care at all.

time, as they say, heals all wounds that aren’t affected by sepsis or gangrene.

But I'd also learned that-in love-nothing makes sense. I didn't make sense. I didn't understand myself. Down is up and up is purple. The sky is drawer. The moon is goat. In love, everything was nonsense. Bu maybe that also means anything is possible.

It is easy to love people in memory; the hard thing is to love them when they are there in front of you.” ​— ​John Updike, My Father's Tears and Other Stories

It's so hard to forget pain, but it's even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace.” —Chuck Palahniuk, Diary

Why are you so anxious to build yourself a ceiling? Why don’t you build a rocket instead?

Usually, but not always, a story is told mostly for the benefit of the teller. The story (...) demonstrates how the teller has lived a life full of adventure, of meaning; that they're comical, self-deprecating, and brave; that they're ultimately a person worth knowing. It's as though folks need to remind themselves of their own worth, and they do this by telling and retelling their favourite eleven or twelve stories, the anecdotes that fundamentally define who they are.

I can’t miss out on any more time with you. I want all your moments, I want every memory.

Clowns, in my experience, are like cats. They can sense when a person isn’t into them and then go out of their way to interact with that person.

Bethany Winston once told me that time was like a closet. No matter what you do or how good your intentions are, you will always fill your time and closets with things that don’t matter. “That’s why funerals are so important,” she’d said. “They force you to clean out closets and reevaluate how you spend your time. Without death, we’d never have empty closets.

Do not let the memories of your past limit the potential of your future. There are no limits to what you can achieve on your journey through life, except in your mind.” —Roy T. Bennett, The Light in the Heart

My mother was awesome. I loved her dearly and respected her even more. She and my dad had been tough on us as kids, the good kind of tough, the kind of tough that came with high expectations. Her favorite thing to say to us had always been, “Why are you so anxious to build yourself a ceiling? Why don’t you build a rocket instead?

Conversely, if a person didn’t place value on what they lacked, then they would never strive to be better.

My mother used to tell me that (most) people value what they have in abundance and what they lack in abundance. If a person didn’t value the strengths and interests they had in abundance, then they would have no self-worth.

I didn’t fight him on this for a few reasons, but mostly because the element of surprise was my favorite, even if it wasn’t on the periodic table. My second favorite was potassium, mostly because of its freak show reaction to water. But I digress.

Our memory is a more perfect world than the universe: it gives back life to those who no longer exist.

My brother had received the same talk, but with one slight variation. My mother, fighting back tears, had told him that when he grew up, the world would perceive him as a big, scary black man. That he must never help anyone stranded or on the side of the road. That he must never leave his car for any reason unless absolutely necessary. That he must be careful about driving or being in public places at night for his entire life.

can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.” ​— ​Virginia Woolf

The past beats inside me like a second heart.” ​— ​John Banville, The Sea

Between memory and reality there are awkward discrepancies...” ​— ​Eileen Chang

Scars are just another kind of memory.” ​— ​M.L. Stedman, The Light Between Oceans

Interestingly, he hadn’t taken I-40 for most of the trip, preferring smaller state roads, like the Oak Ridge Highway. I’d been told it was a scenic drive on the Oak Ridge Highway between Oliver Springs and Knoxville. I’d also been told there were historic Cherokee caverns just before Karns which were decorated with lights and displays around Christmastime. Beyond Knoxville, I’d never driven on the Oak Ridge Highway, though I’d always wanted to see the caverns. When my family drove any significant distance—like to Nashville—we stuck to the large freeways, and ventured out only during daylight hours, never at night. Roscoe was approaching Solway now, and I watched as he took the exit for the Pellissippi Parkway. This route made sense if he didn’t want to drive through Knoxville. Assuming he didn’t make any detours, he’d be in Green Valley in about an hour.

But time, as they say, heals all wounds that aren’t affected by sepsis or gangrene.

Jennifer’s mother, Diane Donner-Sylvester (who many folks had nicknamed The Dragon Lady) had been missing for years, on the run from the law for the murder of Jennifer’s father (profligate and cheating jackass, Kip Sylvester).

Son, if you don’t help me, I’m going to die.

time was like a closet. No matter what you do or how good your intentions are, you will always fill your time and closets with things that don’t matter.