The Anomaly

Whose side are you on? The side of not getting killed. For future reference, that's the side I'm always on.

Nobody gets through life without being an asshole...Once in a while you're going to dig in over something and get it wrong and make a scratch on the world you'll never polish off. Those scratches will define you more than anything else.

The past is full of if-onlys and they're all bullshit.

Wake me up, make me think, or buy me a drink. Otherwise, fuck off.

It's never the world at large you want to prove yourself to. It's someone in particular. Doesn't matter how old you get, you're still hoping for Mom or Dad to kiss you on the head. And yes, that person should ideally be yourself, just as the answers to all our questions and the objects of our quests should most likely be found within our own souls. But they're not. We need more. Someone or something bigger than us. A magical other. And that's why we reach for the gods. Or for someone to love.

You know this already. You'll have bodies stashed in tunnels of your own. Things you've done, mistakes you've made, secrets you hold—the guilt you carry for moments that stick out in your past like black stars in the firmament of your inner life. The outlier occurrences. The anomalies. The events you look back upon in disbelief, wondering how the hell they could have come to pass, and if they can be made to fit in a story you are prepared to own.

... truth is for teenagers and hippies. We're too old and ugly for that crap. Wake me up, make me think, or buy me a drink. Otherwise, f*** off.

Some people are only happy when they’ve got something to disbelieve.

The data is not in, and someone, somewhere, does not yet believe it's time to wipe the board and start again. I don't know whether that's because that person or culture still has faith in us, despite the violence in our hearts and the mistakes we seem intent on making, or if they are working to a subtler agenda then we can begin to comprehend. But look at the world, in the state it's in. I'm not sure we've got much time left to prove the worth of the current round of the experiment.

But my point is I get how corrosive lies become. I understand the need to be able to live with yourself, to not have something lurking back in the dark of your mind, stopping you from being at peace. Are you going to be able to live with that?

I stepped into the passage. I was aware of...a reluctance. Nothing major. Not a big don't for God's sake go in there siren. Merely a note of caution, spiraling up from the deep back brain, a little like the feeling I'd had while sitting along early the previous morning.

Most writers are lazy asses, physically at least. Sure, there are exceptions, like Hemingway, who'd leave the house to shoot something or get macho on a big fish, but I'll bet even he was far happier back at home propping up the bar or on the porch communing with his cats in short, declarative sentences

The thing that has kept me from going crazy at certain periods in my life is the ability to let the future be.

That's nice." "It is. And so I did not tell her that I'd written most of it while taking a shit. My point is neither you nor I know what will matter to the audience in the long run. The truth? Who gives a fuck? The Bible's full of utter cock and there are ten thousand wankers out there using it as an excuse to behave like total fucking arseholes. Same as the Koran and the Talmud and probably whatever the fuck it is that Buddhists get their spells out of. But on the other hand there's been millions of people, over thousand of years, who've got through the day because of that bullshit, or had their heart lifted, or looked at the world differently for ten minutes.

it’s not the content of the particular lie you told me that’s the problem; it’s that I can’t believe you anymore. That’s what destroys everything.

It’s never the world at large you want to prove yourself to. It’s someone in particular. Doesn’t matter how old you get, you’re still hoping for Mom or Dad to kiss you on the head.

Nobody gets through life without being an asshole,” I said. “Once in a while you’re going to dig in over something and get it wrong and make a scratch on the world you’ll never polish off. Those scratches will define you more than anything else.

Time may help you turn a blind eye, but guilt is the stain that never goes away.

Nobody gets through life without being an asshole," I said. "Once in a while you're going to dig in over something and get it wrong and make a scratch on the world you'll never polish off. Those scratches will define you more than anything else.

no longer having the counsel of your wife is akin to losing contact with the fellow war correspondent with whom you spent years deep in-country, witnessing the bad times but also the good, together with the long, rich quiet of just-another-day.

In silence this profound you felt different. Some deep, rusty, older part of your brain urged you to remain quiet, to avoid being noticed.

...aliens are never the answer to any sensible question.