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A Happy Ghost

Book by Karl Kristian Flores · 17 quotes · Society, Loneliness, Life

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A Happy Ghost Quotes

“I can't say anything though. Even if it’s true I’d sound like a prick. Believe that. How can we even— Christ! That’s the problem with people living however they want. When anything goes, reason is no longer credible. You can’t point out trouble. If the truth is offered, and they don’t want it, they get to say the truth is a lie. Autonomy is now prioritized over understanding.”

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“People could look like anything. Any person with a phone managed their identity through a selection of photos whose appearances were impractical to debunk. One could reap the impression of a character if they pleased. People could post to appear like-minded, tough, the best, smart, creative, melancholy, and rich regardless of their actual state. A profile was a catalog of identity theft: books made one dreamy. Luxury made one wanted. Art made one complex. Travel made one busy. And minimalism made a person seem above it all. And the pursuit of this fraud only produced further unhappiness. Users’ contributions to the internet proceeded to tell the world that they were content and did not need love, while the very act of posting such a statement said that they were unhappy and indeed in need of love.”

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“His generation was uncertain if God existed. Having had parents who were religious and breaking off from them, they had associated childhood apathy with religion. But larger than that, this generation was unsure why human life existed—and no matter what technology was invented, there was, in everyone, an incontestable hole. But the internet came, with its limitless span, and for the first time, something was vast enough to challenge that hole. To challenge God. The world needn’t question the universe when it was in the palm of their little hands.”

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“Andrei always thought there was a fundamental eeriness to names. If a name had an adorable ring to it, like Bonnie or Milo, it was cute to say and hard to be angry at a Bonnie for long. People treated others the way their names sounded. If someone’s name was common, people would mostly see neutral characters—shy, kind, or good-natured. If one’s name was unusual, people had lazier associations and treated them as either a spectacle or an artist. If their name was a title commanding presence, the world’s reaction to them, however subtle, would naturally endow them with a confidence as easily handed to them as their name.”

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“And it seemed fitting both for Andrei, and hypothetically the creators of the film, that when he got up to leave in the middle of it, he did so as an ode to the film. A statement of departure that said: 'If you made the movie for the reason I think you did, perhaps you wouldn’t be offended that I left the damn place and decided to chase after life. Inspiration is unlimited, but time is not. Thank you. Goodbye!' He left the poet’s book in the seat beside him, took his popcorn and soda, and exited the cinema the way the writers would have wanted.”

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“This unfortunate phenomenon happened throughout the professor’s career—the students, who could not bear natural interest in the lectures, profited off O’Hare’s passion. They rested their fangs on her neck and used her original elixir for their needs. If they did it unconsciously, then another phenomenon would occur. The students imitated their teachers. And it was the largest robbery of education. By using the vocabulary of their passionate elders, young, ambitious minds convinced themselves and the world of something they did not believe in. Articulation was so personal. It was the result of countless experiences, people, readings, and reflections. When expressing an authentic belief, some ears were fooled by the speaker’s passion, which was like a contagious trance. So those ears applied others’ articulation as their own. By seeing O’Hare speak enthusiastically about a topic, one, with enough attention, could easily think they loved the topic, too.”

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“He looked down at baby Jesus’ feet and could see the etched marks of previously grazed fingers. Everyone loved to adore the feet of statues. And Andrei could see why—baby Jesus had adorable toes. Andrei turned back at the older Jesus on the cross, hanging from the ceiling, and looked at his feet that were nailed. There was something about feet that never aged. Even with a little hair, feet seemed the body part of human beings that lived unblemished and pure. Their evolution had not gone far from what they were before, growing merely in size and always coveting that soft layer of perfect, glistening skin wrapped over veins. They were a part of the body men could trust—a piece of flesh that stayed childish and weird. The heel was not only the closest contact one had with the earth, but one of the most untouched areas of the body. Few people cup their hands to hold another’s heel. The heel was always away, underneath the fabric of a sock, on the bottom of one’s anatomy, deep down and far from immediate openings for conventional contact such as the hands, arms, and lips. A deep impression remained in Andrei: the image of man’s feet was quite angelic.”

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“Everything was predictable. Cinema had act structures. Music had beats. Poets had tricks. Books had arcs. Food tasted delicious as long as it was on the surface of one’s tongue. Any chance of happiness was but one single carousel round, so naturally, after a while, the passenger felt expired. To Andrei, there ceased to be anything worth chasing and this feeling of “running out” in an abundant globe confused him. He wished there was something in the world that was infinite or lasted forever—or was at least worth remembering forever. This was why the sleeper could not dream—his imagination writhed in his true-to-life gluttony.”

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“I’ve gotten it wrong," he said. He always tried to grasp life by zooming out. That was his generation. They were fast with science and believed in the cosmos, and conceptualized reality in academic comfort which made them superior to it. They argued life had no meaning and said things like, “We’re just smart animals on an uncaring rock.” But at some point, a person trying to organize their life with reason would be stuck in infinity. There was nothing to reason with. And so they had to return— return to the monotony that meant something a second time. “My mom,” he dreamed, “once cried to me when she saw a bird chirping on her fence... real, bucket tears. She used to tell me her dreams which always meant something... A grown woman who used to pick up sticks she found pretty and keep them in her bag...She was always sweating...” There was a dumbness to her he could never understand. Andrei’s mother, so pathetically an earthling, lived in touch with humanity, and was involved in it so deeply that no intelligent, zoomed- out mind could ever comprehend. “I don’t want concepts. There is nowhere else to go in life except toward each other.”

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“And suddenly the motorcyclist felt ignited, that was, in the most subtle spark of need: to live in that alternate, finer side of life that was within reach and waited to be taken. It occurred to him what he wanted. And as that butterfly of chance flew past the biker’s soul, he eyed it and caught the white-winged sign instantly. There, he said to himself, I’ll go. And he attended to that meteoric obligation—that dear, vivacious reality unveiled by leaping humans. The biker wanted to see what a certain future looked like, and excitedly leaned back on his Triumph, released the clutch, and pushing off on the rubber footrests, leaned high up in the air to his right and threw himself off the bike.”

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“He had tried so hard that day. Andrei looked toward the smoke, searching for a face, and found none. He knew there was no reward for his life. It would continue to be excruciating for him to venture into the world with stakes and yet receive no friendly consolation. No audience. There were only things and him. The state of aloneness was the condition comets came with. Oh, what a hand could do! A friend! A touch on the shoulder! But this loud torment of silence would serve as the rhythm of a much larger song that played in him—the tune of ceaseless risk. The song commences at the first streak of undertaking. And the lyrics of progress are never congratulated. How could others toast to a victory they did not understand? That they could not see?”

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“And this ghost believed he was in the last phase of life. He considered his anesthesia an inevitable chapter of a human being. After a certain amount of naked bodies, blood on the walls, and vomit on the floor, the color white will look gray. Once he surrendered to gray, the uncaring world proved his worldview. He walked the sunny streets and knew no passerby would ever save him from his rainstorm. He could cry all the way to work and back unstopped. The unconcern of the world confirmed to him that he was a ghost, not only because he was deadened from the hotel, but because when he left and stepped outside it, he knew, indisputably, everyone else was dead to everyone else. To be alive is to play the role of ghost.”

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