“I was a protestor. I was such a protestor that I regularly protested things that might have been good for me.”
“I was becoming convinced that I was going to be lonely for the rest of my life. It wasn't that I wasn't meeting men. I was. It was just that they all drove me crazy.”
“I frantically opened my address book and searched it for someone, anyone, who'd moved me, who'd been good in both bed and brain. No. A slew of the so-so.”
“...instead of the smoldering, soul-baring, Abelard-to-Heloise-sans-castration solicitations you rightfully deserve, you're getting stupefying lines like: "I'm listening to NPR. Do you want to come over and make out?”
“The main problem of living in the city that never sleeps that neither did I.”
“The Playwright was excited in the way a child is excited on Christmas morning. I liked this. Most people didn't get excited about anything other than their own discontent.”
“What do you dream about?” she asks me.
“Finding someone,” I say immediately. “Someone who I can trust, someone who makes me complete.” I bite my lip, and my face flushes hot. “That's stupid, I know. It's just that I never had anybody, really. Not someone who I chose, or who chose me.”
Lark rolls toward me, propping herself up on her elbow. She looks into my eyes and says solemnly, “I chose you.”
Then, slowly, she bends until her lips touch mine. Her lilac hair tumbles over us, and though it I can see the stars shining. Oh Earth, they're spinning! They're dancing…”
“We now know that our galaxy is only one of some hundred thousand million that can be seen using modern telescopes, each galaxy itself containing some hundred thousand million stars. We live in a galaxy that is about one hundred thousand light-years across and is slowly rotating; the stars in its spiral arms orbit around its center about once every hundred million years. Our sun is just an ordinary, average-sized, yellow star, near the outer edge of one of the spiral arms.”
“All power corrupts, but we need electricity.”
“Bad news doesn't hurt as much, if you hear it in good company. It's like, if somebody pushes you out of a 5th floor window and you bounce off an awning, a car roof, and a pile of plastic garbage bags before you smash onto the pavement, you've got a pretty good chance of surviving.”
“Like so much of cool hunting, Hilfiger's marketing journey feeds off the alienation at the heart of America's race relations: selling white youth on their fetishization of black style, and black youth on their fetishization of white wealth.”
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