The most enviable genius in literary history is the guy who invented alphabet soup: nobody knows who he is.
You’re our Marcel Proust, Mr. Zuckerman.”
Zuckerman laughed. It wasn’t exactly how he saw it.
No, he wasn’t a Jain, thought the Swede, but he might as well have been-he was just as pathetically and naively nonviolent. The idiocy of the uprightness of the goals he had set.
There’s no remaking reality… Just take it as it comes. Hold your ground and take it as it comes. There’s no other way.
Life is just a short period of time in which you are alive.
It’s no picnic up there in the egosphere.
Son, anything can happen to anyone,” my father told me, “but it usually doesn’t.
There is truth and then again there is truth. For all that the world is full of people who go around believing they’ve got you or your neighbor figured out, there really is no bottom to what is not known. The truth about us is endless. As are the lies.
He was sitting at his desk. He had to get some relief from seeing what he did not want to see. The factory was empty. There was only the night watchman who’d come on duty with his dogs. He was down in the parking lot, patrolling the perimeter of the double-thick chain-link fence, a fence topped off, after the riots, with supplemental scrolls of razor ribbon that were to admonish the boss each and every morning he pulled in and parked his car, “Leave! Leave! Leave!
What is astonishing is that we, who had no idea how anything was going to turn out, now know exactly what happened. That the results are in for the class of January 1950-the unanswerable questions answered, the future revealed-is that not astonishing? To have lived-and in this country, and in our time, and as who we were. Astonishing. This