Quotes About Complexity

Unfortunately, you choose things because they're safer---that is understandable, though. Inanimate objects don't do unexpected things or break your heart or betray you. Objects are safe. People are complicated.

Man, it had been worth it, though. That was great. That shit was…great. Except

Blay's laugh flared and stopped short, as if his throat got tight. "Yeah. Go fig. Me in love with Qhuinn…a guy who, when he's not moody, is a slut and smart-ass. Except you want to know what the most fucked-up thing is, though?" Qhuinn tensed as John nodded. Blay glanced down at his duffel. "He's right.

Los delicados copos que caían entre su pelo negro y corto y sobre esos hombros desnudos y fuertes no lograban suavizar su imagen ni un poco. Ella no era ningún ángel que estaba siendo amable con él por una razón sencilla. Era perversa, peligrosa e impredecible. Y él la amaba.

Perfection was relative, not any singular characteristic, or even a group of them, but rather how the composite fit together for the person who was regarding the whole.

God knew Qhuinn had fucked his best friend too many times. Or not, as the case was.

The clarinet in its most perfect form is a strange beast--if it is imperfect, it is also completely untamable.

Like pornography, postmodernism is hard to define but easy to spot.

How astonishing it is that language can almost mean, and frightening that it does not quite.

Indeed, it is almost a rule that the more simple and commonplace something is, the more difficult it is to understand it.

Don't touch me, I'm full of snakes.

I'm afraid that you'll never understand me fully, and because of that, sometimes you'll be frightened, disgusted, annoyed, or pleased.

It's all too much and not enough at the same time.

Because he was always tremendously generated towards complete relationship with his women to the point where they ended up in one convoluted octopus mess of souls and tears and fellatio and hotel room schemes and rubbing in and out of cars and doors and great crises in the middle of the night... (p. 128)

It reminds me of a remark Lucien [Carr] once made to me: He said You never seem to give yourself away completely, but of course dark-haired people are so mysterious.

a choleric, red-faced, pudgy hater of everything, who could turn on the warmest and most charming smile in the world when real life confronted him sweetly in the night.

When I got better I realized what a rat he was, but then I had to understand the impossible complexity of his life, how he had to leave me there, sick, to get on with his wives and woes.

My philosophy is that you can't explain the world. It's too big and it's too crazy and sometimes it's funny and most of the time it's... strange.

Incomprehensibility, Kerouac suggests, is not a function of the text but of the reader's limited perception. Innovative narratives, he acknowledges, become comprehensible after their unfamiliar structures have been conventionalized over time.

I've just figured out she is thirty-one-and-a-quarter-per-cent English, twenty-seven-and-a-half-per-cent Irish, twenty-five-per-cent German, eighty-and-three-quarters-per-cent Dutch, seven-and-a-half-per-cent Scotch, one-hundred-per-cent wonderful.

People were complex creatures, walking, talking rag quilts, youthful dreams and hopes and fears and middle-aged indiscretions, aging aches and pains and losses, the whole damn kit and kaboodle, mended here and tattered there. People were pushed and pulled in all sorts of directions and did whatever it was they had to do for balance.

At once he became an enigma. One side or the other of his nature was perfectly comprehensible; but both sides together were bewildering.

'Twin Peaks' is one of those Rorschach ink blot things, where everybody finds their own favorite thing.

As good as 'Twin Peaks' was, and I mean, it's a superb work that's way ahead of its time, and we've never caught up, and we never will... I mean, we will never catch up to 'Twin Peaks.'