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B Quotes

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All B Quotes

“But now, I feel like there's something in me that can't stay quiet anymore. "What I was trying to say is that it reminds me of Einstein's theory of relativity. But obviously[,] Milton isn't talking about the speed of light, he's talking about how the human mind views life." [....] "But really, Milton and Einstein were kind of saying the same thing. That everything is subjective in the human mind. Our emotions, our opinions, they're all relative. It all depends on perspective.”

“But now I know that a twinkling star is just a satellite, another man-made thing not quite as far away as the stars, though far enough to see the world as a whole. Far enough to see the hurricane somewhere out in the Atlantic, spinning itself into nothingness, dissipating under its own destructive power. Far enough to see who still has electricity and who doesn't, and yet far enough to not see me standing in my doorway. Far enough to not see itself reflected in the water. I toss the bottle into the flooded street, watch the ripples, the way the movement makes the stars reflections waver, twinkle, all becoming satellites, watchers, until a new flickering catches my eye...”

“But now I know that there is no killing A thing like Love, for it laughs at Death. There is no hushing, there is no stilling That which is part of your life and breath. You may bury it deep, and leave behind you The land, the people that knew your slain; It will push the sods from its grave, and find you On wastes of water or desert plain.”

“But now I saw a battered hardback on the nightstand next to Mari, the cover a yellow like summer sunshine. I picked it up like I was a burglar and it was a ruby in a bank vault, then found myself smiling at the familiar wide-eyed bear in his floppy hat. I sat back down and opened A Bear Called Paddington, looking for the beginning as familiar and sweet as marmalade sandwiches, Mr. and Mrs. Brown meeting the stowaway bear on the railway platform.”

“But now I want to say things that comfort me and that are a little free. For example: Thursdat is a day transparent as an insect's wing in the light. Just as Monday is a compact day. Ultimately, far beyond thought, I live from these ideas, if ideas is what they are. They are sensations that transform into ideas because I must use words. Even just using them mentally. The primary thought thinks with words.”

“But now I wonder--what if everyone is pretty much the same and it's just a thousand small choices that add up to the person you are? No good or evil, no black and white, no inner demons or angels whispering the right answers in our ears like it's some cosmic SAT test. Just us, hour by hour, minute by minute, day by day,making the best choices we can. The thought is horrifying. If that's true, then there's no right choice. There's only choice.”

“But now, inside the gallery, something happens to him. He finds his emotions gripped by the paintings, the huge, colorful canvases by Diego Rivera, the tiny, agonized self-portraits by Frida Kahlo, the woman Rivera loved. Fabien barely notices the crowds that cluster in front of the pictures. He stops before a perfect little painting in which she has pictured her spine as a cracked column. There is something about the grief in her eyes that won't let him look away. That is suffering, he thinks. He thinks about how long he's been moping about Sandrine, and it makes him feel embarrassed, self-indulgent. Theirs, he suspects, was not an epic love story like Diego and Frida's. He finds himself coming back again and again to stand in front of the same pictures, reading about the couple's life, the passion they shared for their art, for workers' rights, for each other. He feels an appetite growing within him for something bigger, better, more meaningful. He wants to live like these people. He has to make his writing better, to keep going. He has to. He is filled with an urge to go home and write something that is fresh and new and has in it the honesty of these pictures. Most of all he just wants to write. But what?”