Sometimes I think I understand why we women increasingly read novels. Novels, when they work, use lies to tell the truth. The information marketplace, battling for an audience, tends, more and more, to transform intolerable truths into novelistic, riveting, enjoyable lies.
karl von frisch:
… I discovered that miraculous worlds may reveal themselves to a patient observer where the causal passer-by sees nothing at all.
I’m not a believer.
I go on evidence, which is what British philosophy was based on: empiricism.
Which means I’m also not an atheist.
Because atheism is the belief that there is definitely no afterlife, that this life is all there is.
I say this is a belief because we can’t know it is true.
We don’t know there isn’t an afterlife any more than we know there is.
But some people seem terrified to accept uncertainty as a position.
I’m happy to admit I don’t know, until I do.
So I’m agnostic.
Which is another word for keeping an open mind.
Earlier this morning, as they sat at the breakfast table and read the paper, he looked over at her and his eyes filled up. She came over to sit on his lap. He thought of all the ways he had been careless with his life. He thought about the time he was stabbed in the belly button on the street in Costa Rica when a man asked him for a cigarette and money and he said no. How the doctor said that just a little to the left or the right and it would have been over. The drinking, the arrests, the horrible days spent in this suite. He doesn’t forget about that. He doesn’t forget that the old chaos was awful.
Don’t you see? That’s the problem with the Summer of Josh Brolin. The Summer of Josh Brolin is a great many good things, but it is also a threat to the life he had just realized was good enough.
I remember watching a Quentin Tarantino interview in the wake of Pulp Fiction where he talked about seeing Ed Wood (which he loved) in a theater, & when the audience started laughing and hooting at Wood’s misfortunes, he got mad at the audience.
He said he wanted to stand up and yell at them “Yeah, well what have any of you ever made, besides a sandwich?”
The simplicity of sudden death mocks the exquisite, painfully constructed complexity of the life that it ends.
Life is complicated. It’s filled with nuance. It’s unsatisfying… If I believe in anything, it is doubt. The root cause of all life’s problems is looking for a simple fucking answer.