Everything He Did Was At Least Partial

Interesting Verbs Are Seldom Very Interesting.

Depression, When It's Clinical, Is Not A Metaphor. It Runs In Families, And It's Known To Respond To Medication And To Counseling. However Truly You Believe There's A Sickness To Existence That Can Never Be Cured, If You're Depressed You Will Sooner Or Later Surrender And Say: I Just Don't Want To Feel Bad Anymore. The Shift From Depressive Realism To Tragic Realism, From Being Immobilized By Darkness To Being Sustained By It, Thus Strangely Seems To Require Believing In The Possibility Of A Cure.

This Wasn't The Person He'd Thought He Was, Or Would Have Chosen To Be If He'd Been Free To Choose, But There Was Something Comforting And Liberating About Being An Actual Definite Someone, Rather Than A Collection Of Contradictory Potential Someones.

The Human Species Was Given Dominion Over The Earth And Took The Opportunity To Exterminate Other Species And Warm The Atmosphere And Generally Ruin Things In Its Own Image, But It Paid This Price For Its Privileges: That The Finite And Specific Animal Body Of This Species Contained A Brain Capable Of Conceiving The Infinite And Wishing To Be Infinite Itself.

Certain Kinds Of Things That The Novel Used To Do, Which Was, "oh, I'm Living Out Here In West Nowhere, Nebraska And I'm Curious How The Upper Class In New York City Lives, I Guess I'll Read A Novel About It." We Don't Have To Do That Now. You Just Turn On The Tv. Turn On Lifestyles Of The Rich And Famous. You Can Get That Information Anywhere. Novels Don't Have To Do That Anymore.