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Quote by Anna Friedrich

“Mann und Frau wollen sich trennen. Keine seltene Geschichte. Ob es irgendwo eine ewige Statistik gibt, wie oft solche Trennungsversuche klappen und wie oft sie scheitern? Und woran es jeweils liegt? Gibt es irgendwo ein Register dieser Schmerzen? Führt da jemand Buch, damit nicht so ganz umsonst gelitten wird?”

Quote by Anna Friedrich

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Die verschwundene Chefredakteurin

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Anna Friedrich

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“There’s a psychological mechanism, I’ve come to believe, that prevents most of us from imagining the moment of our own death. For if it were possible to imagine fully that instant of passing from consciousness to nonexistence, with all the attendant fear and humiliation of absolute helplessness, it would be very hard to live, as it would be unbearably obvious that death is inscribed in everything that constitutes life, that any moment of our existence is a breath away from being the last one. We would be continuously devastated by the magnitude of that inescapable moment, so our minds wisely refuse to consider it. Still, as we mature into mortality, we gingerly dip our horror-tingling toes in the void, hoping that the mind will somehow ease itself into dying, that God or some other soothing opiate will remain available as we venture deeper into the darkness of nonbeing. But how can you possibly ease yourself into the death of your child? For one thing, it is supposed to happen well after your own dissolution into nothingness. Your children are supposed to outlive you by several decades, in the course of which they’ll live their lives, happily devoid of the burden of your presence, eventually completing the same mortal trajectory as their parents: oblivion, denial, fear, the end. They’re supposed to handle their own mortality, and no help in that regard (other than forcing them to confront death by way of your dying) can come from you—death ain’t a science project. And even if you could imagine your child’s death, why would you?”

“The scene [Bruegel's 'Landscape with the Fall of Icarus'] is filled with a vast field, and a cow and a farmer plowing. In the left-hand corner is a tiny ocean the size of a palm, and there, I can barely make it out, the two legs of a man who fell headlong into the sea. This is called the Fall of Icarus. Compared to everyday life, the fall of an idealist who flew too high with candle-wax wings is an unremarkable tragedy.”

“Correlativament a l'etimologisme, en anglès i francès s'expressen encara les mentalitats més euroescèptiques... dins de les societats amb més dualització juvenil; i, ep!: on el mosaic de llengües medievals ha quedat anorreat per una única llengua oficial moderna, imperialment opressiva —tan dificultosa d'escriure per als propis parlants, tan indefugible per als diglòssics autoodiant-se.”