The amazing thing about water drops is that they always take the path of least resistance. For humans it's exactly the opposite.
How beautiful the sun when newly risen, and explodes in the morning greetings happy as the man who can lovingly salute its rising more glorious than a dream.
Outside, there was that predawn kind of clarity, where the momentum of living has not quite captured the day. The air was not filled with conversation or thought bubbles or laughter or sidelong glances. Everyone was sleeping, all of their ideas and hopes and hidden agendas entangled in the dream world, leaving this world clear and crisp and cold as a bottle of milk in the fridge.
I had trouble listening to adults who didn't really mean anything that they said; it was as if their language poured into my ears only to drain right out a little spigot in the back of my head.
A map does not just chart, it unlocks and formulates meaning; it forms bridges between here and there, between disparate ideas that we did not know were previously connected.
I would not know what to say to you, except this: there was never a map that got it all right, and truth and beauty were never married to one another for long.
Do you ever get the feeling like you already know the entire contents of the universe somewhere inside of your head, as if you were born with a complete map of this world already grafted onto the folds of your cerebellum and you are just spending your entire life figuring out how to access this map?
I do love the sound of ripping corn husks. The violence of the noise, the sustained popping and shoring of the silky organic threads, made me think of someone tearing up an expensive and potentially Italian set of trousers in a fit of madness that this person just might regret later.
I was only twelve, but through the slow, inevitable burn of a thousand sunrises and sunsets, a thousand maps traced and retraced, I had already absorbed the valuable precept that everything crumbled into itself eventually, and to cultivate a crankiness about this was just a waste of time.
I suddenly missed the curious shelving patterns of my room, those old planks from the barn groaning under the weight of the notebooks. Shelving is an intimate thing, like the fingerprint of a room.
9. 我只有十二歲，但是經過緩慢的、不可避免的一千個日出與日落的灼熱考驗、一千個圖表裡的追尋回溯，我已經從一切有價值的規則中有了心得： 一切終將崩潰 ，而且培養一種無謂的偏執狂，是浪費時間。