I feel like I've sunk into the belly of a story-hoarding beast. I can dimly see the mouth and I'm trying to climb out with ladders made from sentences. But often I find they only lead me deeper into the guts.
Perhaps Sherlock and Moriarty both have the same basic character structure and drives, but circumstances have led one to serve order and the other disorder.
When it comes to huge questions – questions that science offers no real answers on – I claim my absolute right to indulge in wild imaginings, crazy theorising, and to believe in things I can’t prove if they bring me joy and do no harm.
For me, the most useful way to frame most non-medicinal drugs – including alcohol, coffee, cigarettes, non-prescribed prescription medications, and other more illicit goodies – is this: drugs are psychological tools with that provide or enhance pleasure.
I’m having trouble getting through King's 'The Gunslinger'. Not because the story is bad, but because I’m only on page 61 and already the treatment of women is deeply shitty.
I feel honoured. Like, I actually understand what that feeling is now, and it’s a beautiful thing.
The primary message seems to be this: a literal lie, told solely for the joy of telling it and hearing it, can be a beautiful thing.
There’s a little voice in my head saying “Why bother? It’s a lot of effort and they’ll never pick you”, but I am flipping that little voice the bird and forging ahead.
In his darkest hours he'd always found comfort in the thought that the world itself might just be a particularly vivid dream in the mind of some ageless sleeper. But, as he heard footsteps approaching outside the hut, the thought seemed dry and impotent against this wet morning that lay quiet before him, in wait for his blood.
Carlin was arguing the a boy who thought that now would be sent to a psychiatrist. That boys these days grew out of all that. That didn’t quite ring pure to me.