You know what a miracle is. Not what Bakunin said. But another world’s intrusion into this one. Most of the time we coexist peacefully, but when we do touch there’s cataclysm.
THOMAS PYNCHONTo have humanism we must first be convinced of our humanity. As we move further into decadence this becomes more difficult.
More Thomas Pynchon Quotes
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She thougt of sunrise over the library slope at Cornell University that nobody out on it had seen because the slope faces west.
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Shall I project a world?
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Teamwork,” Koteks snarled, “is one word for it, yeah. What it really is is a way to avoid responsibility. It’s a symptom of the gutlessness of the whole society.
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It is simply wrong to begin with a theme, symbol or other abstract unifying agent, and then try to force characters and events to conform to it.
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You go from dream to dream inside me. You have passage to my last shabby corner, and there, among the debris, you’ve found life. I’m no longer sure which of all the words, images, dreams or ghosts are ‘yours’ and which are ‘mine.’ It’s past sorting out.
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To have humanism we must first be convinced of our humanity. As we move further into decadence this becomes more difficult.
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Get too conceptual, too cute and remote, and your characters die on the page.
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All the animals, the plants, the minerals, even other kinds of men, are being broken and reassembled every day, to preserve an elite few, who are the loudest to theorize on freedom, but the least free of all.
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Real flight and dreams of flight go together. Both are part of the same movement. Not A before B, but all together.
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It takes, unhappily, no more than a desk and writing supplies to turn any room into a confessional.
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There is no real direction here, neither lines of power nor cooperation. Decisions are never really made – at best they manage to emerge, from a chaos of peeves, whims, hallucinations and all around assholery.
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Behind the hieroglyphic streets there would either be a transcendent meaning, or only the earth.
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Every weirdo in the world is on my wavelength.
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All investigations of Time, however sophisticated or abstract, have at their true base the human fear of mortality.
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She may know a little, may think of herself, face and body, as ‘pretty’ but he could never tell her all the rest, how many other living things, birds, nights smelling of grass and rain, sunlit moments of simple peace, also gather in what she is to him.
THOMAS PYNCHON