It occurs to me that we crush insects beneath our feet, miracles of creation too, beetles, worms, cockroaches, ants, in their various ways.
I am not the we of anyone
Two names on the page, his and hers, side by side. Two in a bed, lovers no longer but foes.
Perhaps; but I am a difficult person to live with. My difficulty consists in not wanting to live with other people.
Why has he taken this job?… For the sake of the dogs? But the dogs are dead; and what do dogs know of honour and dishonour anyway? For himself then. For his idea of the world, a world in which men do not use shovels to beat corpses into a more convenient shape for processing.
He continues to teach because it provides him with a livelihood; also because it teaches him humility, brings it home to him who he is in the world. The irony does not escape him: that the one who comes to teach learns the keenest of lessons, while those who come to learn learn nothing.
He sits with the pen in his hand, holding himself back from a descent into representations that have no place in the world, on the point of toppling, enclosed within a moment in which all creations lies open at his feet, the moment before he loosens his grip and begins to fall.
I don’t think we are ready to die, any of us, not without being escorted.
I speak to the broken halves of all our selves and tell them to embrace, loving the worst in us equally with the best.
But I say to myself, we are all sorry when we found out. Then we are very sorry. The question is not, are we sorry? The question is, what lesson have we learned? The question is, what are we going to do now that we are sorry?