It ought to be an offense to be excruciating and unfunny in circumstances where your audience is almost morally obliged to enthuse.
“…we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly.”
–L’honneur est un luxe reservé à ceux qui ont des calèches.
–Non. Il est la dernière richesse du pauvre.
–Honor is a luxury reserved to the wealthy.
–No. It is the last wealth of the poor man.
Matthew: You’re running away, aren’t you?
Todd: I’m not running away. It’s just…I don’t know. It’s all getting to be too much for me. I feel I’m out of my depth. I’m scared. I’m scared I’m going to do something stupid.
Dream: And if you do something stupid, what then?
Todd: Aren’t you scared of falling?
Dream: It is sometimes a mistake to climb; it is always a mistake never even to make the attempt.
It is tempting with small cameras and roll films to make a great number of exposures to be “safe.” True, there will always be one that is better than the others, but that does not mean it is a good photograph! The best 35mm photographers I know are efficient and make relatively few exposures. They know what they want to do, and do not rely on the “scattered” approach.
Those who would caution people that it might be counter-productive to work against the arms race—unless they believe one should work for the arms race—are in effect counseling paralysis. But would they do so in other areas of life? You never know if that car trip to the grocery store won’t be the last thing you do in your life. All life is a gamble.
What it seems to me is needed is a healthy dose of indignation: a spark, a flame, a fire inside.
In one way, I suppose, I have been “in denial” for some time, knowingly burning the candle at both ends and finding that it often gives a lovely light.
At the center lies the relational theory, where mathematicians freely roam.
The suggestion was sensible; and yet I could not force myself to act on it. I so dreaded a reply that would crush me with despair. To prolong doubt was to prolong hope.
Maybe Anansi’s just some guy from a story, made up back in Africa in the dawn days of the world by some boy with blackfly on his leg, pushing his crutch in the dirt, making up some goofy story about a man made of tar. Does that change anything? People respond to the stories. They tell them themselves. The stories spread, and as people tell them, the stories change the tellers. Because now the folk who never had any thought in their head but how to run from lions and keep far enough away from rivers that crocodiles don’t get an easy meal, now they’re starting to dream about a whole new place to live.