Quotes About Complexity

I've got a sick sense of humour, a dark sense of humour. I do care about things and care about people but there's another side to me.

In 'Saaho,' I play a grey character, someone who is complex from within. Devraj is someone who has grown cold over time, to the extent that people might describe him as someone who has died a hundred times.

I like to synthesize; I hate analysis. I don't like to take a subject and break it down into parts; I like to take disparate parts and put them all together and see what happens. I believe the old saw that the whole is more than the sum of its parts. Of course, it may also be less. But it's the parts that interest me; it's not the whole.

Many young people strangely boast of being motivated; they re-request apprenticeships and permanent training. It's up to them to discover what they're being made to serve, just as their elders discovered, not without difficulty, the telos of the disciplines. The coils of a serpent are even more complex that the burrows of a molehill.

Either it is the fold of the infinite, or the constant folds [replis] of finitude which curve the outside and constitute the inside.

C'est le destin de la ruse que de paraître trop simple à des savants trop naïfs

Difference is not diversity. Diversity is given, but difference is that by which the given is given, that by which the given is given as diverse. Difference is not the phenomena but the noumena closest to the phenomena.

The industrial age defined as the age of insects . . . It's even worse nowadays: you can't tell in advance which stratum is going to communicate with which other, or in what direction . . . a semiotic fragment rubs shoulders with a chemical interaction, an electron crashes into a language, a black hole captures a genetic message, a crystallization produces a passion, the wasp and the orchid cross a letter . . .

The coils of a serpent are even more complex than the burrows of a molehill.

Committing to Nick, feeling safe with Nick, being happy with Nick, made me realize that there was a Real Amy in there, and she was so much better, more interesting and complicated and challenging, than Cool Amy. Nick wanted Cool Amy anyway. Can you imagine, finally showing your true self to your spouse, your soul mate, and having him not like you? So that's how the hating first began. I've thought about this a lot, and that's where it started, I think.

he's always been moody. Even when he was a baby he was like a cat. All snuggly one second and then the next, he'd be looking at you like he had no idea who you were.

She had what the Victorians would call a finely shaped head . You could imagine the skull quite easily. I'd know her head anywhere. And what's inside it. I think of that, too: her mind. Her brain, all those coils, and her thoughts shuttling through those coils like fast, frantic centipedes. Like a child, I picture opening her skull, unspooling her brain and sifting through it, trying to catch and pin down her thoughts. What are you thinking, Amy?

She is an incredibly intelligent idiot

Draw a picture of my soul, and it'd be a scribble with fangs.

Before we start, you have to understand one very key thing about Amy: She is fucking brilliant. Her brain is so busy, it never works on just one level. She's like this endless archaeological dig: You think you've reached the final layer, and then you bring down your pick one more time, and you break through to a whole new mine shaft beneath. With a maze of tunnels and bottomless pits.

Normally, Richard was the kind of guy I disliked, someone born and raised plush: looks, charm, smarts, probably money. These men were never very interesting to me; they had no edges, and they were usually cowards. They instinctively fled any situation that might cause them embarrassment or awkwardness. But Richard didn't bore me. Maybe because his grin was a little crooked. Or because he made his living dealing in ugly things.

I was not a lovable child, and I'd grown into a deeply unlovable adult. Draw a picture of my soul, and it'd be a scribble with fangs.

And I didn't realize. I didn't take into account. Just. You know, this is real to you. I mean, I know that, we know that, but we don't at the same time. We really just never will. I don't think. Totally get that. You spend so much time discussing and debating it becomes... But. Well. I'm sorry.

Diary Amy. She was meant to be likable. Meant for someone like you to like her. She's easy to like. I've never understood why that's considered a compliment—that just anyone could like you. No matter.

You two are the most fucked-up people I have ever met, and I specialize in fucked-up people.

You can like an immoral character because she's interesting, not because you want to have her over for dinner.

Like a child, I picture opening her skull, unspooling her brain and sifting through it, trying to catch and pin down her thoughts.

I have a meanness inside me, real as an organ.

I picture opening her skull, unspooling her brain and sifting through it, trying to catch and pin down her thoughts.