Mar. 13th, 2011

Now -- the goons show up:
  • We know him from a time when there was no such thing as normal people dying. There were clues, hints about some bad alternative to being alive
  • our familiar features rinsed in weird adulthood
  • Its basketball game has a nervous sharpness that makes the room and even us look smudged.
  • So this is it—what cost me all that time. A man who turned out to be old, a house that turned out to be empty.
  • I feel dread, as if the combination of sunlight and hospital bed could cause an explosion.
Scotty is actually not the most troubled person in this book. He's not even in the top 3. 
  • I was working for the city as a janitor in a neighborhood elementary school and, in summers, collecting litter in the park alongside the East River near the Williamsburg Bridge. I felt no shame whatsoever in these activities, because I understood what almost no one else seemed to grasp: that there was only an infinitesimal difference, a difference so small that it barely existed except as a figment of the human imagination, between working in a tall green glass building on Park Avenue and collecting litter in a park. In fact, there may have been no difference at all.
  • If we human beings are information processing machines, reading X’s and O’s and translating that information into what people oh so breathlessly call “experience,”
  • I considered the fact that nothing more than a series of atoms and molecules combined in a particular way to form something known as a stone wall stood between me and those people inside the public library, dancing.
  • Like all failed experiments, that one taught me something I didn’t expect: one key ingredient of so-called experience is the delusional faith that it is unique and special, that those included in it are privileged and those excluded from it are missing out.
  • The desk was a giant jet black oval with a wet-looking surface like the most expensive pianos have.
  • Behind the desk was nothing but view—the whole city flung out in front of us the way street vendors fling out their towels packed with cheap, glittery watches and belts. That’s how New York looked: like a gorgeous, easy thing to have, even for me.
  • She was still flying the flag of her pretty smile.



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