84
" We take it for granted that life moves forward. You build memories; you build momentum.You move as a rower moves: facing backwards.
You can see where you've been, but not where you’re going. And your boat is steered by a younger version of you.
It's hard not to wonder what life would be like facing the other way. Avenoir.
You'd see your memories approaching for years, and watch as they slowly become real.
You’d know which friendships will last, which days are important, and prepare for upcoming mistakes. You'd go to school, and learn to forget.
One by one you'd patch things up with old friends, enjoying one last conversation before you
meet and go your separate ways.
And then your life would expand into epic drama. The colors would get sharper, the world would feel bigger.
You'd become nothing other than yourself, reveling in your own weirdness.
You'd fall out of old habits until you could picture yourself becoming almost anything.
Your family would drift slowly together, finding each other again.
You wouldn't have to wonder how much time you had left with people, or how their lives would turn out.
You'd know from the start which week was the happiest you’ll ever be, so you could relive it again and again.
You'd remember what home feels like,
and decide to move there for good.
You'd grow smaller as the years pass, as if trying to give away everything you had before leaving.
You'd try everything one last time, until it all felt new again.
And then the world would finally earn your trust, until you’d think nothing of jumping freely into things, into the arms of other people.
You'd start to notice that each summer feels longer than the last.
Until you reach the long coasting retirement of childhood.
You'd become generous, and give everything back.
Pretty soon you’d run out of things to give, things to say, things to see.
By then you'll have found someone perfect; and she'll become your world.
And you will have left this world just as you found it.
Nothing left to remember, nothing left to regret, with your whole life laid out in front of you, and your whole life left behind. "
― The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows
92
" Do you ever wonder how we all got here? On Earth, I mean. Forget the song and dance about Adam and Eve, which I know is a load of crap. My father likes the myth of the Pawnee Indians, who say that the star deities populated the world: Evening Star and Morning Star hooked up and gave birth to the first female. The first boy came from the Sun and the Moon. Humans rode in on the back of a tornado.
Mr. Hume, my science teacher, taught us about this primordial soup full of natural gases and muddy slop and carbon matter that somehow solidified into one-celled organisms called choanoflagellates... which sound a lot more like a sexually transmitted disease than the start of the evolutionary chain, in my opinion. But even once you get there, it's a huge leap from an amoeba to a monkey to a whole thinking person.
The really amazing thing about all this is no matter what you believe, it took some doing to get from a point where there was nothing, to a point where all the right neurons fire and pop so that we can make decisions.
More amazing is how even though that's become second nature, we all still manage to screw it up. "
― Jodi Picoult , My Sister's Keeper
94
" Right from the start he is dressed in his best - his blacks and his whitesLittle Fauntleroy - quiffed and glossy,A Sunday suit, a wedding natty get-up,Standing in dunged strawUnder cobwebby beams, near the mud wall,Half of him legs, Shining-eyed, requiring nothing moreBut that mother's milk come back often.Everything else is in order, just as it is.Let the summer skies hold off, for the moment.This is just as he wants it.A little at a time, of each new thing, is best.Too much and too sudden is too frightening -When I block the light, a bulk from space,To let him in to his mother for a suck,He bolts a yard or two, then freezes,Staring from every hair in all directions,Ready for the worst, shut up in his hopeful religion,A little syllogismWith a wet blue-reddish muzzle, for God's thumb.You see all his hopes bustlingAs he reaches between the worn rails towardsThe topheavy oven of his mother.He trembles to grow, stretching his curl-tip tongue -What did cattle ever find hereTo make this dear little fellowSo eager to prepare himself?He is already in the race, and quivering to win -His new purpled eyeball swivel-jerksIn the elbowing push of his plans.Hungry people are getting hungrier,Butchers developing expertise and markets,But he just wobbles his tail - and glistensWithin his dapper profileUnaware of how his whole lineage Has been tied up.He shivers for feel of the world licking his side.He is like an ember - one glowOf lighting himself upWith the fuel of himself, breathing and brightening.Soon he'll plunge out, to scatter his seething joy,To be present at the grass,To be free on the surface of such a wideness,To find himself. To stand. T "
98
" Sometimes time can play tricks. One moment it idles by, an hour can seem a lifetime, such as when sitting by the river at dusk watching the bats snatching insects above the limpid waters; the breaching fish causing ringed ripples and a satisfying plop. Other times, time flashes by in an immodest fashion. So it is with the start of war. First time quivers with the last strum of a wonderful peace, the note holding in the air, mysterious and haunting, filling the listener with awe. Then, with a rising crescendo the terror starts with uncouth haste; with a boom the listener is shaken from their reverie and delivered into the servitude, of an ear-shattering cacophony. "
― M.A. Lossl , Mizpah Cousins: life, love and perilous predicaments during the Great War era.
