Quotes About Contemplation

Sorgan tried his very best not to think about how long it must have taken for a stream that small to eat its way down through solid rock to form its current bed. Sorgan knew exactly what the word "hundred" meant, but when numbers wandered off toward "thousand"—or even "million"—and the people who used those terms were talking about years, Sorgan's mind shied back in horror.

Why not? Why not? Why not not, then, if the best reasoning you can contrive is why not?

He just sits there. I want to be like that. Able to just sit all quiet and pull life toward me, one forehead at a time. His name is supposedly Lyle.

just the thought of getting up made me glad I was lying on the floor.

He didn't reject the idea so much as not react to it and watch as it floated away. He thought very broadly of desires and ideas being watched but not acted upon, he thought of impulses being starved of expression and drying out and floating dryly away, and

in winter's watered-down light—just

I can remember watching large, tentative, individual flakes of snow falling and blowing around aimlessly in the wind generated by the train through the window of the CTA commuter line from Lincoln Park back up to Libertyville, and thinking, 'This is my crude approximation of a human life.

And then but so what's the difference between tennis and suicide, life and death, the game and its own end?

He didn't reject the idea so much as not react to it and watch as it floated away.

What's unendurable is what his own head could make of it all. What his head could report to him, looking over and ahead and reporting.

There's not any real forwardness to it. You don't sense it's straining to get anywhere. The thing it makes you see as she reads is something heavy swinging slowly at the end of a long rope.

The inactive viewer's screen is the color of way out over the Atlantic looking straight down on a cold day.

Still, though. Right. Exactly.

I was looking at my sneakers and making my feet alternately pigeon-toed and then penguin-toed on the bedroom's blue carpet.

there. I want to be like that. Able to just sit all quiet and pull life toward me, one forehead at a time. His name is supposedly Lyle. It was yrstruly and C and Poor Tony that crewed that day and everything like that. The

Quiero ser así. Capaz de sentarme inmóvil y empujar la vida hacia mí, una frente cada vez.

We await, I predict, the hero of non-action, the catatonic hero, the one beyond calm, divorced from all stimulus, carried here and there across sets by burly extras whose blood sings with retrograde amines.

The thing is that there are obviously different ways to think about these kinds of situations.

The defecatory posture is an accepting posture, it occurs to him. Head down, elbows on knees, the fingers laced together between the knees.

and sipping hazelnut espresso and watching, on the cartridge-viewing system that occupied half the

CHAPTER I: DISCUSSION AND BED

When I began to wait to live I really began to wait to die.

There is no real freedom for the man who is in so much of a hurry that he is annoyed by the human race and by the hot glaring afternoon sun.

Think before you speak, think twice before you shout, think three times before you go mad.