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Quote by Holly Bourne

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The Yearbook

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Holly Bourne

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“In fact, the child is no longer a child. Children are substitute beings, who are losing their natural otherness and entering upon a satellite existence on the artificial orbit of sameness. They will find it increasingly difficult to detach themselves; to find, not their identity and their autonomy — as they are constantly being told they must — but their distance and their strangeness. The more genetic heredity is foregrounded, the more the symbolic heritage disappears. Even the Oedipal drama is not played out any longer. There is no longer any resolution of childhood, since the psychical and symbolic conditions of childhood no longer even exist. Childhood is losing even the chance of surpassing and denying itself as such. It is disappearing as a phase in the metamorphosis of the human being. At the same time as it is losing this distinctive spirit of its own and its singularity, it is becoming a sort of dark continent. For otherness inevitably re-emerges, but differently, in the form of a vast, shady complicity on the part of a generation which is at last free from adult attention, but is no longer minded to grow up. An endless, purposeless adolescence, which is acquiring autonomy with no reference to the Other, acquiring it for itself — and turning, in some cases violently, against the Other, against the adult with whom it now has no sense either of descendance or solidarity. This is no longer a symbolic break, but a pure and simple rejection, which may find expression in a lethal 'acting out' . And it is not even 'acting out' , since that still presupposes the irruption of the phantasm into a real world , whereas here we are dealing with an infantile, quasi-hallucinatory state which reaches back before the reality principle. Moreover, this pre-reality-principle, infantile state coincides strangely with the world of virtual reality, our adult media world, the post-reality-principle world, in which the real and the virtual merge.”

Childhood
Book:Screened Out
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“White caps or white horses. Take your pick. They are the same. They are nature's warning before beaches had flags. I had heard my uncle point them out. It sounded fanciful as the drawings beside poems about giants using pillows for clouds. . . . When my uncle said they were there and we wouldn't be going in his boat that day . . . I didn't understand. White horses, I thought, were my uncle's poetry. Better even than calling the swells on waves "white caps." Pilgrims and nurses wore caps. Who wanted to think of them? White horses were another matter. Brothers to unicorns. Galloping. Long haired and free. I ran into the sea.”

PoetryChildhoodHorsesMisunderstandingsBeaches
Book:American Girl: Memories That Made Me
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“Our Vietnamese a time capsule, a mark of where your education ended. Ma, to speak in our mother tongue is to speak only partially in Vietnamese, but entirely in war. That night I promise myself I'd never be wordless when you needed me to speak for you. So I began my career as our family's official interpreter. From then on, I would fill in our blanks, our silences, our stutters, whenever I could. I code switched. I took off our language and wore my English, like a mask, so that others would see my face, and therefore yours. It's true that, in Vietnamese, we rarely say I love you, and when we do, it is almost always in English. Care and love, for us, are pronounced clearly through service...”

ChildhoodIdentityMotherhoodImmigrationVietnamese
Book:On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous
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“I miss you more than I remember. They will tell you that to be political is to be merely angry, and therefore artless, depthless, “raw”, and empty. They will speak of the political with embarrassment, as if speaking of Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. They will tell you that great writing ‘breaks free’ from the political, thereby ‘transcending’ the barriers of difference, uniting people toward universal truths. They’ll say this is achieved through craft above all. Let’s see how it’s made, they’ll say — as if how something is assembled is aliens to the impulse that created it. As if the first chair was hammered into existence without considering the human form. I know. It’s not fair that the word laughter is trapped inside slaughter.”

WritingPoliticsChildhoodMemoryIdentity Quotes
Book:On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous
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