"Actual happiness always looks pretty squalid in comparison with the overcompensations for misery. And, of course, stability isn't nearly so spectacular as instability. And being contented has none of the glamour of a good fight against misfortune, none of the picturesqueness of a struggle with temptation, or a fatal overthrow by passion or doubt. Happiness is never grand."
(Aldous Huxley, Brave New World)
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Monday, May 23, 2011
Written On The Body (1)
"Cheating is easy. There's no swank to infidelity. To borrow against the trust someone has placed in you costs nothing at first. You get away with it, you take a little more and a little more until there is no more to draw on. Oddly, your hands should be full with all that taking but when you open them there's nothing there."
(Jeanette Winterson - Written on the body)
(Jeanette Winterson - Written on the body)
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
The History of Love
"The first language humans had was gestures. There was nothing primitive about this language that flowed from people’s hands, nothing we say now that could not be said in the endless array of movements possible with the fine bones of the fingers and wrists. The gestures were complex and subtle, involving a delicacy of motion that has since been lost completely.
During the Age of Silence, people communicated more, not less. Basic survival demanded that the hands were almost never still, and so it was only during sleep (and sometimes not even then) that people were not saying something or other. No distinction was made between the gestures of language and the gestures of life. The labor of building a house, say, or preparing a meal was no less an expression than making the sign for I love you or I feel serious. When a hand was used to shield one’s face when frightened by a loud noise something was being said, and when fingers were used to pick up what someone else had dropped something was being said; and even when the hands were at rest, that, too, was saying something. Naturally, there were misunderstandings. There were times when a finger might have been lifted to scratch a nose, and if casual eye contact was made with one’s lover just then, the lover might accidentally take it to be the gesture, not at all dissimilar, for ‘Now I realize I was wrong to love you’. These mistakes were heartbreaking. And yet, because people knew how easily they could happen, because they didn’t go round with the illusion that they understood perfectly the things other people said, they were used to interrupting each other to ask if they’d understood correctly. Sometimes these misunderstandings were even desirable, since they gave people a reason to say, ‘Forgive me’, I was only scratching my nose. Of course I know I’ve always been right to love you. Because of the frequency of these mistakes, over time the gesture for asking forgiveness evolved into the simplest form. Just to open your palm was to say: Forgive me."
(taken from "The History of Love" - Nicole Krauss)
During the Age of Silence, people communicated more, not less. Basic survival demanded that the hands were almost never still, and so it was only during sleep (and sometimes not even then) that people were not saying something or other. No distinction was made between the gestures of language and the gestures of life. The labor of building a house, say, or preparing a meal was no less an expression than making the sign for I love you or I feel serious. When a hand was used to shield one’s face when frightened by a loud noise something was being said, and when fingers were used to pick up what someone else had dropped something was being said; and even when the hands were at rest, that, too, was saying something. Naturally, there were misunderstandings. There were times when a finger might have been lifted to scratch a nose, and if casual eye contact was made with one’s lover just then, the lover might accidentally take it to be the gesture, not at all dissimilar, for ‘Now I realize I was wrong to love you’. These mistakes were heartbreaking. And yet, because people knew how easily they could happen, because they didn’t go round with the illusion that they understood perfectly the things other people said, they were used to interrupting each other to ask if they’d understood correctly. Sometimes these misunderstandings were even desirable, since they gave people a reason to say, ‘Forgive me’, I was only scratching my nose. Of course I know I’ve always been right to love you. Because of the frequency of these mistakes, over time the gesture for asking forgiveness evolved into the simplest form. Just to open your palm was to say: Forgive me."
(taken from "The History of Love" - Nicole Krauss)
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
On Books
"We need to make books cool again. If you go home with somebody and they don’t have books, don’t fuck them."
*John Waters
(well how 'bout that...)
*John Waters
(well how 'bout that...)
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Depression
'When you're lost in those woods, it sometimes takes you a while to realize that you are lost. For the longest time, you can convince yourself that you've just wandered a few feet off the path, that you'll find your way back to the trailhead any moment now. Then night falls again and again, and you still have no idea where you are, and it's time to admit that you have bewildered yourself so far off the path that you don't even know from which direction the sun rises anymore. I took on my depression like it was the fight of my life, which, of course, it was. I became a student of my own depressed experience, trying to unthread its causes.
What was the root of all this despair?
Was it psychological? (Mom and Dad's fault?)
Was it just temporal, a "bad time" in my life? (When the divorce ends, will the depression end with it?)
Was it genetic? (Melancholy, called by many names, has run through my family for generations, along with its sad bride, Alcoholism.)
Was it cultural? (Is this just the fallout of a post feminist American career girl trying to find balance in an increasingly stressful and alienating urban world?)
Was it astrological? (Am I so sad because I'm a thin-skinned Cancer whose major signs are all ruled by unstable Gemini?)
Was it artistic? (Don't creative people always suffer from depression because we're so supersensitive and special?)
Was it evolutionary? (Do I carry in me the residual panic that comes after millennia of my species' attempting to survive a brutal world?)
Was it karmic? (Are all these spasms of grief just the consequences of bad behavior in previous lifetimes, the last obstacles before liberation?)
Was it hormonal? Dietary? Philosophical? Seasonal? Environmental?
Was I tapping into a universal yearning for God?
Did I have a chemical imbalance?
Or did I just need to get laid?
What a large number of factors constitute a single human being! How very many layers we operate on, and how very many influences we receive from our minds, our bodies, our histories, our families, our cities, our souls and our lunches!'
(Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love)
What was the root of all this despair?
Was it psychological? (Mom and Dad's fault?)
Was it just temporal, a "bad time" in my life? (When the divorce ends, will the depression end with it?)
Was it genetic? (Melancholy, called by many names, has run through my family for generations, along with its sad bride, Alcoholism.)
Was it cultural? (Is this just the fallout of a post feminist American career girl trying to find balance in an increasingly stressful and alienating urban world?)
Was it astrological? (Am I so sad because I'm a thin-skinned Cancer whose major signs are all ruled by unstable Gemini?)
Was it artistic? (Don't creative people always suffer from depression because we're so supersensitive and special?)
Was it evolutionary? (Do I carry in me the residual panic that comes after millennia of my species' attempting to survive a brutal world?)
Was it karmic? (Are all these spasms of grief just the consequences of bad behavior in previous lifetimes, the last obstacles before liberation?)
Was it hormonal? Dietary? Philosophical? Seasonal? Environmental?
Was I tapping into a universal yearning for God?
Did I have a chemical imbalance?
Or did I just need to get laid?
What a large number of factors constitute a single human being! How very many layers we operate on, and how very many influences we receive from our minds, our bodies, our histories, our families, our cities, our souls and our lunches!'
(Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love)
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Solitude, Say You?
You're One Hundred Years of Solitude!
by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Lonely and struggling, you've been around for a very long time.Conflict has filled most of your life and torn apart nearly everyone you know. Yet thereis something majestic and even epic about your presence in the world. You love life allthe more for having seen its decimation. After all, it takes a village.
Take the Book Quizat the Blue Pyramid.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Trois lettres destinées à mes victimes et à la vie 03
3. A mademoiselle Sens, rue de la « Passion »
Les regards dévorants et les mains inconnues qui caressaient ton sexe représentent maintenant pour toi des images qui n’éveillent plus tes sens. Tu aimais l’odeur des parfums chers et raffinés des clients qui cherchaient la volupté dans tes bras ; maintenant tu ne sens que le parfum de la mort, un souffle repoussant et froid qui traverse tous les pores de ta peau inanimée. Tu rêves d’être touchée encore une fois, mais la mort t’enveloppe en ailes de goudron. Les vers caressent ta chair, mais elle te blâme pour ne l’avoir pas laissée gémir sous le frôlement tendre de ces nouveaux inconnus. Qu’aurais-tu pu représenter pour la vie ? Justement ce que tu venais de dire ! Tu n’étais qu’une tranche de chair dont tous, ceux qui voulaient, ont satisfait leurs fantaisies sexuelles. Tu te vendais pour pouvoir vivre… Tu tenais à ton statut de « marchandise » et tu te sentais à l’aise en négociant ta féminité. Croyais-tu avoir toujours le même corps dont tu sois fière ?
Tu pourras dire que je t’ai rendu une faveur : j’ai effacé ton avenir si indésirable. Je t’ai frayé un nouveau chemin.
Qui sait, il se peut que tu trouves des clients même là-bas…
(Ecrit par Laura Raicu, une chère amie!)
Les regards dévorants et les mains inconnues qui caressaient ton sexe représentent maintenant pour toi des images qui n’éveillent plus tes sens. Tu aimais l’odeur des parfums chers et raffinés des clients qui cherchaient la volupté dans tes bras ; maintenant tu ne sens que le parfum de la mort, un souffle repoussant et froid qui traverse tous les pores de ta peau inanimée. Tu rêves d’être touchée encore une fois, mais la mort t’enveloppe en ailes de goudron. Les vers caressent ta chair, mais elle te blâme pour ne l’avoir pas laissée gémir sous le frôlement tendre de ces nouveaux inconnus. Qu’aurais-tu pu représenter pour la vie ? Justement ce que tu venais de dire ! Tu n’étais qu’une tranche de chair dont tous, ceux qui voulaient, ont satisfait leurs fantaisies sexuelles. Tu te vendais pour pouvoir vivre… Tu tenais à ton statut de « marchandise » et tu te sentais à l’aise en négociant ta féminité. Croyais-tu avoir toujours le même corps dont tu sois fière ?
Tu pourras dire que je t’ai rendu une faveur : j’ai effacé ton avenir si indésirable. Je t’ai frayé un nouveau chemin.
Qui sait, il se peut que tu trouves des clients même là-bas…
(Ecrit par Laura Raicu, une chère amie!)
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Trois lettres destinées à mes victimes et à la vie 02
2. A une jeune fille de dix-huit ans, numéro 0, rue de l’« Incertitude »
Les cheveux bruns sont en harmonie parfaite avec ton visage blanc, froid, sans vie. Je mérite ta reconnaissance. Je t’ai sauvée, je t’ai tirée d’un mauvais pas : du suicide. Tu dois m’en être reconnaissante. Je t’ai aidée à répondre aux plus terribles questions de la vie : vaut-il la peine que je vive ? Et si je me coupe les veines ? Et si je prends tous ces médicaments ? Et si je ne meurs pas et que j’aie la malchance d’arriver a l’hôpital ? Toutes les choses vont-elles changer en mieux ? Je te dirais – rien ne sera en ta faveur, personne ne sera auprès de toi. Tes parents continueront de te considérer une folle femme capricieuse et ils ne te comprendront jamais (crois-moi, ils auront encore une raison pour te proposer un psychiatre) ; tes collègues seront toujours les imbéciles et ils ne cesseront pas de se moquer de plus en plus de toi, jusqu’à ce que tu finisses à souhaiter leur mort ; les professeurs vont te traiter de la sorte – une rebelle, une inadaptable, un parasite de la société, une femme sans avenir. Tu es une cause perdue !
Tu disais que tout ce que tu fais est erroné. Même ton suicide aurait été une erreur. Mais pourquoi ? Parce-que tu aurais joui de la publicité – imagine-toi les titres des journaux : « Une jeune femme de dix-huit ans se coupe les veines dans la toilette du lycée ». Tu serais sortie de cet anonymat que tu adores ; on aurait parlé seulement de ton histoire, même les inconnus. Rien de plus dégoûtant : tout le monde sera au courant de ton échec derrière un soi-disant « acte de courage ».
Je t’ai éloigné de l’obscurité de la vie,
Je t’ai fait ouvrir les yeux et
J’ai chassé ton incertitude.
Tu as encore à faire une seule chose :
RIRE DE CEUX QUI EVITENT LA MORT !
(Ecrit par Laura Raicu, une chère amie)
Les cheveux bruns sont en harmonie parfaite avec ton visage blanc, froid, sans vie. Je mérite ta reconnaissance. Je t’ai sauvée, je t’ai tirée d’un mauvais pas : du suicide. Tu dois m’en être reconnaissante. Je t’ai aidée à répondre aux plus terribles questions de la vie : vaut-il la peine que je vive ? Et si je me coupe les veines ? Et si je prends tous ces médicaments ? Et si je ne meurs pas et que j’aie la malchance d’arriver a l’hôpital ? Toutes les choses vont-elles changer en mieux ? Je te dirais – rien ne sera en ta faveur, personne ne sera auprès de toi. Tes parents continueront de te considérer une folle femme capricieuse et ils ne te comprendront jamais (crois-moi, ils auront encore une raison pour te proposer un psychiatre) ; tes collègues seront toujours les imbéciles et ils ne cesseront pas de se moquer de plus en plus de toi, jusqu’à ce que tu finisses à souhaiter leur mort ; les professeurs vont te traiter de la sorte – une rebelle, une inadaptable, un parasite de la société, une femme sans avenir. Tu es une cause perdue !
Tu disais que tout ce que tu fais est erroné. Même ton suicide aurait été une erreur. Mais pourquoi ? Parce-que tu aurais joui de la publicité – imagine-toi les titres des journaux : « Une jeune femme de dix-huit ans se coupe les veines dans la toilette du lycée ». Tu serais sortie de cet anonymat que tu adores ; on aurait parlé seulement de ton histoire, même les inconnus. Rien de plus dégoûtant : tout le monde sera au courant de ton échec derrière un soi-disant « acte de courage ».
Je t’ai éloigné de l’obscurité de la vie,
Je t’ai fait ouvrir les yeux et
J’ai chassé ton incertitude.
Tu as encore à faire une seule chose :
RIRE DE CEUX QUI EVITENT LA MORT !
(Ecrit par Laura Raicu, une chère amie)
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Trois lettres destinées à mes victimes et à la vie
1. A monsieur l'avocat de la rue « Justice », n'importe quel numéro.
Qu'est-ce que le monde ? Que sommes-nous, en fait, nous les gens ? Tout est un jeu... et toi, tu as perdu ! Tu as perdu ta femme, ton lieu de travail, l'argent, le prestige, ta vie... Oui, tu as perdu ! La seule chose que tu aies gagnée, c'est moi. Tu m'as gagné, tu as gagné le droit de mourir avant de te rendre compte de l'ordure où tu es, de la misère où tu vas te débattre avant de voir les papiers du divorce avec sa signature en bas de la page, avant de compter les derniers sous, avant de te voir humilié par tes anciens collègues. Je suis le seul que tu puisses remercier, parce qu'en effet je t'ai volé tout, mais, je t'ai donné la chance de mourir vite et inconsciemment.
Tu te demandes peut-être ce qui va se passer à ton enterrement... si tu auras une bonne ou mauvaise mine... qui va pleurer... qui va regretter que tu les aies quittés ? Même moi, j’en suis curieux : qui vraiment ? Ta femme, après l’avoir trouvée habillée d’une manière indécente, au lit, avec ton meilleur ami ? Qui ? Le président du barreau qui t’a mis à la porte pour n’avoir pas voulu faire son jeu pendant le procès de ce jeune homme ? Le voisin de vis-à-vis ? La serveuse du café où tu lis ton journal chaque jour ? C’est toi, seulement toi qui auras pitié de toi-même ! Tu vas essayer de trouver quelque chose de bon dans tout ce que tu as perdu : une vie comblée de rêves, un chemin qui n’a aucun sens. Maintenant tu essaies de trouver des réponses et des coupables pour ce que tu n’as pas pu être ?
Je te donnerai la réponse lorsque…
(Ecrit par Laura Raicu, une chère amie)
Qu'est-ce que le monde ? Que sommes-nous, en fait, nous les gens ? Tout est un jeu... et toi, tu as perdu ! Tu as perdu ta femme, ton lieu de travail, l'argent, le prestige, ta vie... Oui, tu as perdu ! La seule chose que tu aies gagnée, c'est moi. Tu m'as gagné, tu as gagné le droit de mourir avant de te rendre compte de l'ordure où tu es, de la misère où tu vas te débattre avant de voir les papiers du divorce avec sa signature en bas de la page, avant de compter les derniers sous, avant de te voir humilié par tes anciens collègues. Je suis le seul que tu puisses remercier, parce qu'en effet je t'ai volé tout, mais, je t'ai donné la chance de mourir vite et inconsciemment.
Tu te demandes peut-être ce qui va se passer à ton enterrement... si tu auras une bonne ou mauvaise mine... qui va pleurer... qui va regretter que tu les aies quittés ? Même moi, j’en suis curieux : qui vraiment ? Ta femme, après l’avoir trouvée habillée d’une manière indécente, au lit, avec ton meilleur ami ? Qui ? Le président du barreau qui t’a mis à la porte pour n’avoir pas voulu faire son jeu pendant le procès de ce jeune homme ? Le voisin de vis-à-vis ? La serveuse du café où tu lis ton journal chaque jour ? C’est toi, seulement toi qui auras pitié de toi-même ! Tu vas essayer de trouver quelque chose de bon dans tout ce que tu as perdu : une vie comblée de rêves, un chemin qui n’a aucun sens. Maintenant tu essaies de trouver des réponses et des coupables pour ce que tu n’as pas pu être ?
Je te donnerai la réponse lorsque…
(Ecrit par Laura Raicu, une chère amie)
Friday, October 8, 2010
We Die
"We die containing a richness of lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have plunged into and swum up as if rivers of wisdom, characters we have climbed into as if trees, fears we have hidden in as if caves. I wish for all this to be marked on my body when I am dead. I believe in such cartography -- to be marked by nature, not just to label ourselves on a map like the names of rich men and women on buildings. We are communal histories, communal books. We are not owned or monogamous in our taste or experience. All I desired was to walk upon such an earth that had no maps."
(Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient)
(Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient)
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Same as the Blues?
"She was still hugging the cat.
'Poor slob', she said. 'Poor slob without a name. It's a little inconvenient his not having a name. But I haven't any right to give him one, he'll have to wait until he belongs to somebody. We just sort of took up by the river one day, we don't belong to each other: he's an independent, and so am I. I don't want to own anything until I know I've found the place where me and things belong together. I'm not quite sure where that is just yet. But I know what it's like. [...] It's like Tiffany's', she said. 'Not that I give a hoot about jewelry. Diamonds, yes. But it's tacky to wear diamonds before you're forty; and even that's risky. They really look right on the really old girls. Wrinkle and bones, white hair and diamonds: I can't wait. But that's not why I'm mad about Tiffany's. Listen. You know those days when you've got the mean reds?'
'Same as the blues?'
'No', she said slowly. 'No, the blues are because you're getting fat or maybe it's because it's been raining too long. You're sad, that's all. But the mean reds are horrible. You're afraid, and you sweat like hell, but you don't know what you're afraid of. Except something bad is going to happen, only you don't know what it is. You've had that feeling?'
'Quite often. Some people call it angst.'"
(Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany's)
'Poor slob', she said. 'Poor slob without a name. It's a little inconvenient his not having a name. But I haven't any right to give him one, he'll have to wait until he belongs to somebody. We just sort of took up by the river one day, we don't belong to each other: he's an independent, and so am I. I don't want to own anything until I know I've found the place where me and things belong together. I'm not quite sure where that is just yet. But I know what it's like. [...] It's like Tiffany's', she said. 'Not that I give a hoot about jewelry. Diamonds, yes. But it's tacky to wear diamonds before you're forty; and even that's risky. They really look right on the really old girls. Wrinkle and bones, white hair and diamonds: I can't wait. But that's not why I'm mad about Tiffany's. Listen. You know those days when you've got the mean reds?'
'Same as the blues?'
'No', she said slowly. 'No, the blues are because you're getting fat or maybe it's because it's been raining too long. You're sad, that's all. But the mean reds are horrible. You're afraid, and you sweat like hell, but you don't know what you're afraid of. Except something bad is going to happen, only you don't know what it is. You've had that feeling?'
'Quite often. Some people call it angst.'"
(Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany's)
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
The Heart Is An Organ Of Fire
"July 1936
There are betrayals in war that are childlike compared with our human betrayals during peace. The new lover enters the habits of the other. Things are smashed, revealed in new light. This is done with nervous or tender sentences, although the heart is an organ of fire.
A love story is not about those who lose their heart but about those who find that sullen inhabitant who, when it is stumbled upon, means the body can fool no one, can fool nothing - not the wisdom of sleep or the habit of social graces. It is a consuming of oneself and the past."
(Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient)
The English Patient
There are betrayals in war that are childlike compared with our human betrayals during peace. The new lover enters the habits of the other. Things are smashed, revealed in new light. This is done with nervous or tender sentences, although the heart is an organ of fire.
A love story is not about those who lose their heart but about those who find that sullen inhabitant who, when it is stumbled upon, means the body can fool no one, can fool nothing - not the wisdom of sleep or the habit of social graces. It is a consuming of oneself and the past."
(Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient)
The English Patient
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Feeling Good
"Sometimes I forget where I am and I start smiling, no reason whatsoever. I'm happy. Really happy. I get lost somewhere, in a random place, like one forgets an open book on a windowsill."
(Marin Sorescu, Iona)
(Marin Sorescu, Iona)
Saturday, September 18, 2010
They Can Drive You Crazy
'I was half in love with her by the time we sat down. That's the thing about girls. Every time they do something pretty, even if they're not much to look at, or even if they're sort of stupid, you fall half in love with them, and then you never know where the hell you are. Girls. Jesus Christ. THEY CAN DRIVE YOU CRAZY. They really can.'
(J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye)
(J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye)
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Flaubert's Parrot
"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. Books make sense of life. The only problem is that the lives they make sense of are other people's lives, NEVER YOUR OWN."
(Julian Barnes, Flaubert's Parrot)
Books are where things are explained to you; life is where things aren't. I'm not surprised some people prefer books. Books make sense of life. The only problem is that the lives they make sense of are other people's lives, NEVER YOUR OWN."
(Julian Barnes, Flaubert's Parrot)
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Capote Revelation
"I suppose you think I'm very brazen. Or très fou. Or something. [...] Yes, you do. Everybody does. I don't mind. It's useful."
(Truman Capote's Breakfast at Tiffany's)
(Truman Capote's Breakfast at Tiffany's)
Monday, May 3, 2010
Wait and Hope
'There is neither HAPPINESS nor MISERY in the world; there is only the comparison of one state with another, nothing more. He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness. We must have felt what it is to die, that we may appreciate the enjoyments of life. Live, then and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and never forget that until the day when God shall deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is summed up in these two words – wait and hope.'
(Alexandre Dumas, The Count Of Monte Cristo)
(Alexandre Dumas, The Count Of Monte Cristo)
Thursday, April 22, 2010
On Love
"Every fall into love involves the triumph of hope over self-knowledge. We fall in love hoping we won't find in another what we know is in ourselves, all the cowardice, weakness, laziness, dishonesty, compromise, and stupidity. We throw a cordon of love around the chosen one and decide that everything within will somehow be free of our faults. We locate inside another a perfection that eludes us within ourselves, and through our union with the beloved hope to maintain (against the evidence of all self-knowledge) a precarious faith in our species."
(Alain de Botton, On Love)
The Cardigans - Lovefool
(Alain de Botton, On Love)
The Cardigans - Lovefool
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Everybody Deserves Clean Water
'It’s a funny thing about the modern world. You hear the girls in the toilets of clubs saying, ‘Yeah, he fucked off and left me. He didn’t love me. He just couldn’t deal with love. He was too fucked up to know how to love me.’
Now, how did that happen? What was it about this unlovable century that convinced us we were, despite everything, eminently lovable as a people, as a species? What made us think that anyone who fails to love us is damaged, lacking, malfunctioning in some way? And particularly if they replace us with a god, or a weeping madonna, or the face of Christ in a ciabatta roll - then we call them crazy. We are so convinced of the goodness of ourselves, and the goodness of our love, we cannot bear to believe that there might be something more worthy of love than us, more worthy of worship. Greetings cards routinely tell us everybody deserves love. No. Everybody deserves clean water. NOT EVERYBODY DESERVES LOVE AT ALL TIME.'
(Zadie Smith, White Teeth)
Now, how did that happen? What was it about this unlovable century that convinced us we were, despite everything, eminently lovable as a people, as a species? What made us think that anyone who fails to love us is damaged, lacking, malfunctioning in some way? And particularly if they replace us with a god, or a weeping madonna, or the face of Christ in a ciabatta roll - then we call them crazy. We are so convinced of the goodness of ourselves, and the goodness of our love, we cannot bear to believe that there might be something more worthy of love than us, more worthy of worship. Greetings cards routinely tell us everybody deserves love. No. Everybody deserves clean water. NOT EVERYBODY DESERVES LOVE AT ALL TIME.'
(Zadie Smith, White Teeth)
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