The next day, when I was sober, I thought again about the three of us, and about time's many paradoxes. For instance: that when we are young and sensitive, we are also at our most hurtful; whereas when the blood begins to slow, when we feel less sharply, when we are more armoured and have learned how to bear hurt, we tread more carefully.
It's a shame that the only thing a man can do for eight hours a day is work. He can't eat for eight hours; he can't drink for eight hours; he can't make love for eight hours. The only thing a man can do for eight hours is work. 
Lock up your libraries if you like, but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.
Dear Friends -- please forgive my lack of blogging lately. However, I found this weekend's Trifecta Writing Challenge too irresistible to pass up.
Imagine the terrestrial timespan as an outstretched arm: a single swipe of an emory-board, across the nail of the third finger, erases human history. We haven't been around for very long. And we've turned the earth's hair white.
I can indeed hardly see how anyone ought to wish Christianity to be true for if so the plain language of the text seems to show that the men who do not believe, and this would include my father, brother and almost all of my friends, will be everlastingly punished. And this is a damnable doctrine.
Life is made of fear. Some people eat fear soup three times a day. Some people eat fear soup all the meals there are. I eat it sometimes. When they bring me fear soup to eat, I try not to eat it, I try to send it back. But sometimes I'm too afraid to and have to eat it anyway.
Art is amoral, whether we accept this or not; it does not take sides. The finest fictions are cold at heart.
As I passed under the first broad, high, cool canopy of leaves, it occurred to me to wonder when a tree would feel most like itself, when it would feel it had most fully achieved its true being. I mean, if it were sentient -- and who is to know if we are the only conscious ones, or that our consciousness is the only kind there is? -- at what stage of its yearly cycle would it say, now, now I am what I am, now at last I am in my total treeness.
Just thought I'd drop by and say "I made it here!"
I am about to enter into one of my favourite modes of living.
Those of you who are addicted to a daily dose of Bookpuddle Splash du Jours will notice that today you had to… go without, as it were!
All his life he would hold this moment as exemplary of what love was. It was not wanting anything more, nor was it expecting people to exceed what they had just accomplished; it was simply feeling so complete.
I know in advance that I will not win and/or place in this particular Trifecta Writing Challenge because of the political [or religious] incorrectness of my response, but I'll give it a go, nonetheless:
This week’s Trifextra challenge is simple, but ambiguous.
Three truths and a lie.
33 to 333 words.
Bring it.
Three truths and a lie.
Fair enough.
Utilizing only the minimum requisite of 33 words, here are my thoughts:
Truth One: In difficulty, we should pray to God.
Truth Two: We need only the faith of a mustard seed.
Truth Three: God will answer that sincere prayer.
Lie: God will answer it.
*****
Let's see -- what am I up to lately?
Books say: She did this because. Life says: She did this. Books are where things are explained to you; life is where things aren't. I'm not surprised some people prefer books.
You don’t know what goes on in anyone’s life but your own. And when you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re not messing with just that part. Unfortunately, you can’t be that precise and selective. When you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re messing with their entire life. Everything... affects everything.
And meanwhile the sad truth was that not everyone could be extraordinary, not everyone could be extremely cool; because whom would this leave to be ordinary? Who would perform the thankless task of being comparatively uncool?
