The truth is "#9dream" is a descendant of "Norwegian Wood". Both are ghost stories. "She" in "Norwegian Wood" curses you with loneliness. The "Two spirits dancing so strange" in "#9dream" bless you with harmony. But people prefer loneliness to harmon...
Dreams are shores where the ocean of spirit meets the land of matter. Dreams are beaches where the yet-to-be, the once-were, the will-never-be may walk awhile with the still are.
When you win, the rules change, and you find you’ve lost
Young mothers are the most vicious tribe in the world if you don't fit in.
A single night is stuffed with minutes, but they leak out, one by one.
A book you finish reading is not the same book it was before you read it.
All these people like my mother paying counselors and clinics to reattach them to reality; all of us people here paying Sony and Sega to reattach us to unreality.
Politicians and sports coaches both need to be smart enough to master the game, but dumb enough to think it matters.
Our ancestors built temples for their gods. We build department stores.
Tokyo is a model of that serial big-bang theory of the universe. It explodes at five P.M. and people matter is hurled to the suburbs, but by 5 A.M. the people-matter gravity reasserts itself, and everything surges back toward the center, where mass d...
The clock’s pendulum catches the firelight, and in the rattle-breathed final moments of Jacob de Zoet, amber shadows in the far corner coagulate into a woman’s form. She slips between the bigger, taller onlookers unnoticed … … and adjusts her...
The present is a battleground . . . where rival what-ifs compete to become the future 'what-is.' How does one what-if prevail over its adversaries? The answer . . . 'Military and political power, of course!' is a postponement, for what is it that dir...
So little is actually worthy of belief or disbelief. Better to strive to coexist than seek to disapprove . . .
He thinks of the all steps that gathered this party and marvels at the weaverless looms of fortune.
I find a certain comfort," confesses Marinus, "in humanity's helplessness.
One's ribs shouldn't be prison bars.
Hell hell because, there, evil passes unremarked upon.
We have just enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to make us love.
What man ain't the honestest cove in his own eyes?" Grote's round face is a bronze moon in the dark. "'Tain't good intentions what paves the road to hell: it's self-justifyin's.
Orito banishes all thoughts of Jacob de Zoet, and recalls Jacob de Zoet.
Loyalty looks simple... but it ain't.
