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The present close, the present realized,
Not the symbol but that for which the symbol stands,
The vivid thing in the air that never changes,
Though the air change.

Only this evening I saw it again,
At the beginning of winter, and I walked and talked
Again, and lived and was again, and breathed again
And moved again and flashed again, time flashed again.
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Brexit Chainsaw Massacre E4

Lamb conversation relevant for two reasons: L for lamb = the islanders are going to try to sacrifice Ellie; brings up issue of whether a child counts as a different animal. Anti-Bible study ex-vet Helen assumes we’re all animals - “mammalian flesh is mammalian flesh” - so maybe a point will come where she’ll have trouble allying with the children of the problem whites because she thinks they’re like their parents? If the show has a relatively happy ending (I’m not getting too attached to Ellie) it will be because it’s optimistic that a later electoral generation of white Brits will take immigrants’ and minorities’ side against their fucked up predecessors, after all. The astonished Lu finds thousands on her side. Britain will need immigration and reconnection to the wider world to overcome its two forms of stagnation (ugly island off in a corner few want to visit anymore, aging non-self-replacing population).

Of course the human-representing doll inside the actual lamb sacrifice (“K is for Kangaroo,” Julie remarked) might instead mean the islanders continue to assume if they sacrifice one generation’s fortune it will be to the benefit of the next. That lamb’s white, after all. But the life it dies to save is plastic, unreal, so that’s idiotic - you don’t save your children by killing yourself. The crucified pregnant Mary I guess also signified that? The guy who accosts Ellie is the one who wanted median voter Law dead rather than converted last time (a more purist, alt-right sort of viewpoint, willing to risk losses in the short term to avoid dilution of purpose?). Maybe he recognizes this problem and assumes sacrificing more traditional fascist scapegoats should be the answer rather than Britain’s economy? The assurances of both the Airbnb guy and the hotel owner that racism’s not the problem here might be denialism, or just a lie, but maybe there’s at least a grain of truth to it in the show’s view? Maybe those people represent those who will come around later. Fear-based xenophobia is hard to separate from ideological racism but maybe that’s the show’s point, that by confounding them we’re selling short the potential of the white English to change and thereby writing England off forever (rather than just for the near future, during which it agrees it’s going to be “a dump”).

Helen and Ellie might be versions of the same name, though - Helena/Elena - so maybe the question of whether child must be like parent applies instead to them. Or also to them? The Airbnb people seemed to be reconsidering something when they noticed Lu and Ellie were likely mixed race. Maybe that somehow qualifies them for sacrifice candidacy during Lamb Week, like the football thug type guy may have decided. But maybe it instead suggested some other solution to them - like the only realistic one, where Britain accepts it can’t stay cut off from the rapidly culture- and color-blending larger world thus, y’know, mingles. But the *show* won’t be condemning Helen as more “animal” than her lighter children even if the yokels do, so something more complex must be happening if it’s she who’s the lamb. Wonder what?

...

Wrote all that before the Law, as it were. Main thing that changes about what I was discussing is that the islanders have a plot-level reason to want them to replace Law, since the kids are also descendants of the manor people. On a thematic level I guess that represents cultural assimilation (enthusiasm for which would be the real acid test separating xenophobes from racists?) or anyway how, given the white birth rate, the middle class off-white cohort will soon *be* the deciding median vote Law’s had been at Leave time.

The replacement of sea-appeasing/blocking salt with earth-symbolizing fallen leaves maybe suggests a sea change in what the right wing establishment wants?
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Some further thoughts on how the Deep Purple song is being used in Saul:

“. )
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Game of Thrones 8.5

“. )
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The way the light came through, the ceiling and one wall were always darker, somehow bluer. It made them seem more solid, such that he came to think of his room as a lean-to. The lesser walls were like concentrations of air, thicker versions of clouds. He had early moved the head of his bed against the one trusted wall and lay perpendicular to its middle. Eyes closed, he thought of the world as wheeling about, careening really, before him and beside him and beneath his boxsprings. But he himself was safely shelved, warranted from behind and above. Walking about on city streets he often noted a similar sensation. The two directions his eyes knew least about, up and back, were so seldom problems that they felt not just blacked out but nonexistent. Until betrayed by a sportive bird's shit or fast and inattentive walker's jostle this illusion could be sustained. After that, though, walking down the street seemed more like an effort to escape some indefatigable wall of world pursuing him while seeking out new ceilings for protection from freefalling skies. His face felt skulless, then, or his skull more like an egg than a stone. It was surprising how much else that seemed to change. What he said, say, and to whom.
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It came to mean nothing to me that I knew the truth. The truth that mattered was how to make others know it. The lowest charlatan possessed something I felt I never could, something without which I was nothing.

Someone I confided in asked me what all the great religions had in common.

They're lies, I said.

Yes, but not only that: they're lies that replace a reality all of us know. The problem with what I was selling was that it was true. What the charlatans knew that I did not was that people want to be lied to, so long as they feel sure that lie will never be exposed. That's what the charlatan is pitching: the durability of his lies. Don't convince them you're telling the truth. Convince them that, at least about what counts, you never will. With that they'll rest easy. That forgives them all of the lies they've told, the lies they feel they've become, and all the lies they mean to get to. You're not there to tell them they're wrong, you're there to show them how to be even wronger.

So my task is hopeless.

Not at all. Lie about not being a liar. Tell all the lies at once, then slant them slowly into truth.

Tell a story, you mean.

You say that like anything else has ever worked.
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Some Borges observations:

1. "The Garden of Forking Paths" is still my pick for best story I've ever read. The Dead is wonderful, but this story somehow encompasses it. Or is it that there is a slight difference of opinion, and I side with Borges? Instead of a fellow feeling born of our shared dying, the one here endorsed (all the more forcefully by the consequences of its negation) is based on our being alive. Death is a powerful flavor but life is the dish. And I think the story hints at what gives death this power - and it is given, not natural to death. Our "blood" shames us out of our true inheritance.

2. Relatedly, the following is the passage that crushes me each time. Equivalent to the last page of The Dead in some respects, but fittingly taking place in the exact middle.

Under English trees I contemplated that lost labyrinth, imagining it pristine and inviolate in a mountain fastness. I imagined it obliterated by paddies or under water; I pictured it endless, no longer consisting of octagonal pavilions and of paths that turn back on themselves but of rivers and provinces and kingdoms. I thought of a labyrinth of labyrinths, of a meandering, ever-growing labyrinth that would encompass the past and future and would somehow take in the heavenly bodies. Absorbed in these imaginings, I forgot my predicament as a hunted man. For untold moments, I felt I was a detached observer of the world. The living, twilit fields, the moon, the remains of the evening were playing on me; as was the easy slope of the road, which removed any chance of tiring. The evening was intimate, infinite. The road descended and branched across now shadowy pastures. A high-pitched, almost syllabic music drifted in, blurred by leaves and distance, and then moved off on wafting breezes. I reflected that a man can be an enemy of other men, of other moments of other men, but not of a country - not of fireflies, words, gardens, waterways, sunsets.

3. The Garden of Forking Paths is a novel, a story, and a collection. The novel is in the story which is in the collection. Ends it, in fact. Near the end of the story we are told that the novel is secretly about time. The story is not so secretly about time, but even more is about what ends it and why. What is the collection about? Our self-defeating insistence on trying to supplant a life we do not sufficiently control for our comfort with some artifice we control too well for our mental health? I'm not sure these can be boiled down to "attempts to stop time" (though replacing natural with narrative time does recur as a theme), but the various mistakes made do seem branchings out from a single root wilfulness. Comprise a sort of garden of errors. Perhaps the collection's expansion, Fictions, is similarly self-referentially titled - these are fictional narratives about people trapped in their own fictional narratives?

4. I used to think of Garden as a revision of Before the Law, a piece he'd translated in 1938, which I guess it is in a few ways (c.f. the narrator's admission of cowardice) but for whatever reason it's feeling more Joyce-directed this time. Maybe because of its presentation of a way out of the prison sketched out in the previous stories, like The Dead does in Dubliners? (And both do this by reaching back to a Romantic touchstone.) But there's also an antidote to Stephen's "Omphalos" vision in the "labyrinth of labyrinths" passage. Accept that there's no way out of the present and that that is exactly what we need anyway and this maze of life really does become a garden, and not the artificially ordered kind, but Eden. (Joyce knew this, too - hence Bloom. Maybe Stephen Albert, among the many other things he is, is a Bloom-healed Dedalus. Though I'm fascinated by how Borges associates him with Goethe: though Ibsen meant little to Borges and Goethe meant little to Joyce, Faust begets Peer Gynt begets Ulysses. Feels like Borges caught that lineage. Seems telling, too, that the Irishman Madden, the narrator's equally murderous nemesis and double, similarly feels he has something to prove to the English the way the spy does with the Germans. Madden's contemporary Joyce wrote his own time-obsessed maze-novel (or two, take your pick - a novel with the Wake's cyclical format gets described by Albert at one point), after having famously made peace with the inferiority complex and related nationalistic guilt he depicts in Stephen and Gabriel, who are largely sympathetic critiques of his younger self. Joyce joined Goethe, Stephen Albert (French-named but Nordic-seeming) and the Chinese writer of the Garden novel in the circle of cosmopolitans, to Borges the best of people (c.f. The Congress, which revisits that paragraph above with another vision of the manmade fading into - after providing a path into - the world). Madden and Fang are names suggesting violence to an English reader, as Borges primarily was, and particularly rabid dogs (Madden is etymologically "son of a dog" too). Stephen and the novelist are their healed or not yet infected selves. Stephen Albert means "crown prince;" while Yu Tsun can mean a lot of things, depending on what's being transliterated, two of the possible Yu meanings are "gemstone" and ... "joy." (Tsui Pen may be "allowed drumbeats" (?) which could just refer to his being supplanted by a war-enabling descendant?). But, yeah: joy. I think perhaps the story was intended as a tribute to Joyce, the sort you might make to someone sacred to you, a personal hero. Was it written after his death? It was published the same year is all I know. Joyce wasn't shot in the back, though IIRC he did die "painlessly" because under anesthesia. But perhaps in some sense he was a casualty of WW2? Rushed surgery in a war-isolated country or something? Or maybe Borges felt he or his Wake were being forgotten because of world events. Joyce's disciple/twin Woolf's suicide the same year (Borges translated both authors) seems to have been partly due to a feeling of the irrelevance of her art in a war-degraded world.

5. I have an argument to sketch out about some of the many subtle interconnections in the Paths stories when it's less late.
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From "Quain":

I regret that I lent a certain lady - irrecoverably - the first thing he wrote. This I have said was a detective novel called The God of the Labyrinth; I can add that it was published towards the end of November, 1933. By early December, the pleasing but laboured convolutions of Ellery Queen's Siamese Twin Mystery had London and New York engrossed; I would suggest that the failure of our friend's novel should be blamed on this disastrous coincidence. Also - and I want to be absolutely honest - on the book's flawed construction and on a number of stiff, pretentious passages that describe the sea. Seven years on, I find it impossible to recollect the details of the plot. Here, then, is its outline, now impoverished (or purified) by my dim memory. There is a puzzling murder in the opening pages, plodding conversation in the middle, and a solution at the end. Once the mystery is solved, we come upon a long paragraph of retrospection containing this sentence: 'Everyone thought that the meeting between the two chess players had been accidental.' The words lead us to believe that the solution is wrong. The anxious reader, going back over the relevant chapters, discovers a different solution, the true one.

Quainisms? God's-handkerchiefs? Painted breadcrumbs? Chess meetings? Giddings? Dead Pauls?
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And hours to go until I sleep. And hours to go until I sleep.
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Is there a name for this particular story trope: some utterly innocuous-seeming detail at the start of a story that in fact, looked at very closely and perhaps with the benefit of hindsight, gives the whole game away. Obviously such keys can be camouflaged elsewhere, but the start has some unique advantages when it comes to hiding stuff:

1. The virgin reader hasn't the slightest idea what the game will even be yet.

2. It's at the maximum distance from the stretch where one does have ideas about the game, thus its details have been crowded out by everything else that's come between. (Since we do retain initial impressions quite well, not the first sentence(s) but not too far in might work best of all.)

3. We're so used to a story invading its setting that we sometimes think of the setting itself as irrelevant, or as getting to be as noisy and signal-free as real life. So at the start the author actually has some of what we assume all authors always have but they in fact almost never do, once constrained by their plot and the shared readerly/writerly need to get rid of it by carrying it to a necessary end: space. Since they're even more constrained, or anyway compelled, by theme, which is what makes them care enough about plot to suffer through concocting one, if they have any brains they'll fill that space up to the brim. Being caught doing this will be fatal, of course: preceding a story with an essay about the message it will convey ruins the story. So the wool you gather while briefly permitted to had better come pre-dyed.

(Authors can also hide this stuff in spectacles: descriptions of what readers are curious about enough to pause the story for, like what the characters look like or whatever big buildings or geographical features are come upon. Also in stories, texts or art objects inside the story's world. But once the plot's started to come together for the reader all of these will either be viewed with suspicion or afforded only a certain amount of patience, which an author will usually need to spend much of on details that turn out to forward the plot. Of course the more ingenious authors can shoehorn both thematic and plot content in together, at these nodes - and the most ingenious usually manage to find plots that are somehow already one with their themes. But even though those tools are available they tend to be comparativrly blunt. Innocently whistling the song of their guilt permits authors to speak, and not just telegraph, their confession.)

4. Should the reader ever figure this out the fact that it was right there literally all along will affect them powerfully, strengthening their sense that the ending was inevitable from the beginning. See, look, the beginning actually says so!

Rereading doesn't even necessarily turn up this sort of covert revelation, because we can almost never truly reread, rather than tread words while having their initial purport reinforced, until time has revirginized us - at which point we'll be likely hoodwinked in the exact same manner. We'll reread in light of the ending. But suppose there's a secret ending, or a hidden way we're supposed to interpret that ending, and maybe much of what precedes it? Authors can use this particular technique of ... I'm failing to find a term for it, a metaphor ... to show off, or make the final reveal feel somehow right, or to reassure readers who still feel a bit confused by a final surprise. But they can also use it to put suspicion into rereaders (or keen rememberers) about how things seem to have concluded. Or, more ambitiously, to let rereaders who have become suspicious for other reasons know that they are right to be. The ficus in the foyer might hide a sign pointing in a new direction, or might just contain the folded message that those readers who went a different direction than the others were not crazy to do so, that the author sees them seeing her and approves.

...

Borges uses tricks like this because he uses all the tricks. This instance seems to me the trickiest of all, since what he hides in the foyer and in plain sight is the very concept of hiding things in the foyer in plain sight:

Bioy Casares had dined with me that evening and we'd lingered over a discussion on the mechanics of writing a novel in the first person, in which the narrator omitted or distorted events, thereby creating discrepancies that would allow a handful of readers - a tiny handful - to come to an appalling or banal realization.

For me, what that sentence does to the story is as amazing as what its missing encyclopedia pages do to reality.
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Looking back across that first week of our acquaintance I was struck by how much about how she spoke, dressed, behaved seemed designed, if not precisely to rebuff, then to make clear that if a certain degree of access had been granted much more was withheld and was likely to continue to be. Even when she at last undressed for me in her room her garters, which she never did remove and which I can for some reason picture her selecting from a catalog, seemed to suggest something more was being held back, even as they held back nothing. Letting her hair down seemed to belie that warning, though - seemed like the true crossing of a threshold, unlike the parenthesized denuding preceding it. While we weren't the sort to announce or verbally negotiate, and were as conservative as any couple that had abandoned shyness just since, the most arousing thing about her was a look of agreement in her eyes. It's a look you know, the one where the pupils have gone so large that you become aware of what they reflect, like a turned off television. The brightest light in the room or out the window dominates, becomes the moon or evening star of that small night. Even when still such eyes seem always to be leaning, coming toward you. Accurately or not, they seemed to convey that she would agree with whatever I proposed. Not because she had anticipated what that might be, but because she either no longer cared if she had or was excited that she hadn't. Half-asleep and watching her dress afterward there seemed something almost bureaucratic - even oddly reminiscent of Kafka's Castle - in the progressive layering of garments, the shining and knotting of the hair, the freezing of the expression via makeup into one of both superiority and slight surprise. "Almost certainly not" overwrote her native "Yes, of course." And I was now glad it did. Not because it kept other men at bay, as I expected no trouble yet from that quarter (perhaps naively), but because it somehow offered privacy. It felt something like the infinite-seeming quiet hallways, the loudly impersonal elevators, the giant's-living-room lobby and "Yes, and?" skepticism of the prompt, prompting desk clerks of our hotel. Something like all of those layers of evening one threads through to pass into night.
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I often suspect I'm not doing my opinions any favors by having them.
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Breaking Bad 1.1

We're trying to identify the colors before seriously guessing at what they mean, but Gilligan & co. are definitely doing a scheme.

. . . color talk . . . )
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There was no test, no vision quest, no institution empowered to hand out credentials. It was instead accepted that anyone willing to present himself as something as ridiculous as a magician might as well be regarded as one. Theirs, too, was a society uniquely resistant to hierarchizing. Since it has never been remotely clear what magic is - or on what terms it might even be confirmed to exist - the practice of it can only be judged in utilitarian or aesthetic terms, none of which are native to magic. One magician might be older, richer, more popular, more helpful and more pleasant than another, but no one could prove that either was better or worse at magic.

I had learned that others' interest could be held by depictions of relationships between people, events, truths, but never by descriptions of any of those. The base unit of communication is the verb and not the noun. Even the difference between two objects of one kind was not enough to anchor focus. You needed to show the effects of that difference on each, and how those diverse effects affect that difference. And so on. It is never a matter of saying that, for example, the prophet had ignored the oracle, but of putting one's ear to the world where a prophet can do such a thing, to catch the tone of its response to that ignoring.

He didn't do tricks. The trick was for you to figure out what he did do, which you'd never master because he kept on doing more of it. A performance, sure, but was it for you? And if not, if it was for him he performed, wasn't that so that he could feel it was no performance at all? Whatever made him need that would then be the player, the real puppeteer. And since, if you let yourself think about it, you'd have to admit you were part of what had driven him to this extreme - with your laughter, with your shrugs, with whatever the hell we do to people we don't do for - then maybe the only real trick was for you to figure out why you'd help push someone out of reality and into magic. Or help pull a magician's hat out of an innocent rabbit. But whoever plays people like you never lets you think things like that. Or, if ever, then probably just this once.

Sense does not quickly decay but is immediately at the mercy of our whimsical methods of storing, every one of which is eccentric, like a specific funhouse mirror or a famous painter's style. What is actually lost is dwarfed, and thoroughly distracted from, by the scale, variety, and curiously absolute confidence of our semi-voluntary acts of translation. Where something of the world is lost it is at times more effective (and often more feasible) to study our own habits of retention - almost as pronounced as a stamp, as a signature - than to reconsult the model, who, like clockwork herself, will have already spent our dollars on her favorite drugs, disfigured her face with a new tattoo, changed her name, married our enemy, died and left town. The trick to remember is to try to keep in mind both her and us, as it's so easy to get lost in how ourselves we are or how far the world has strayed from where we put it. Get the thread back into the needle's eye and you'll have usually forgotten what you were doing it for, of course. Still, someone with needle and thread will find work soon enough.

Nude at her wardrobe but innocent of me, her inspections put her through several changes in rapid succession. Each was captivating, was something new and permanent, to be destroyed but never moved. It was statues she went through, not poses. Statues of living flesh. They hardly seemed related to one another - at most she was a set of sisters. A better man would have felt guilty of infidelity by thought, but conveniently for me my loyalty seemed to be to the blurred range of people she was, while my desire, whose glove my body had become, freely and callously threw over each woman she'd been just before for the her it had just now spied. Who did some of those sisters see in you, though, you'd have asked me. But I'd have kept on and claimed wasn't that us to a T: I with both shirts to my name nailed right onto my back, she changing hers so often she hardly wore a stitch. Two ambiguous solutions to one basic ambivalence, you'd have thought. But these were sunspots. How things would unravel if things would unravel, which, yes, fine, they did, but they hadn't then. Then was her by the wardrobe and me on the bed. Then I'd reach out a hand.

It is not that a story is over when the relation it depicts becomes stabilized, but rather that the possibility that one could ever have been told requires that time exist, and time, defined precisely, is the promise that anything that can move will be moved - and that anything that that anything touches will be moved by its moving. Nothing is settled enough to be described the same way twice. States of relation are no more settled, of course, but by their exposure of the tail every object has, its unshakeable "and," and the way these can tangle, such relations meet a minimal condition of existence - connection to something else that exists - that objects, viewed alone, fail. Some argue that storymaking relations fall short of achieving existence themselves, holding that the story of the world must be all one story, including every occurrence within it, and that this story is identical with the world itself, which exists both by and as its own self-telling. But to whom could it even be told? The stories that connect an I with a you borrow their substance from the complex and complexly shifting connections between an it (perhaps a you) and another it (perchance an I), the sort of motion that, since we have our own experiential history with each of the objects interacting, we can be sure is happening, even if everything else about it proves difficult to characterize. Telling a story invites subject matter into the story of our breathing, already in progress. Verbs outline nouns, and, as these outlines web together with those conferred by other verbs, can infuse them with qualities such as color, heft, endurance. Verbs adjectivize, as nouns adverbiate. Adverbs, adjectives are shards, grindings, traces of the nouns a verb has carried, of the verbs a noun has led.
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If it be not today yet it will crumb. The breadiness is all.
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We really liked Glow. Marc Maron, who's normally completely unfunny and intolerable, is actually very amusing and interesting on it. Seems like there's a fairly large group of comedians who aren't very funny but can be made very funny by others' writing. Russell Brand's another - fun in the Aldous Snow movies but just godawful on his own. Sarah Silverman's standup, while admittedly many notches better, can be hard to take but she was always gold back on Mr. Show. Born comic actors who think they're comic writers, I guess?

Brie was also surprisingly good - she'd been underserved by her earlier roles, looks like. (The way she's dressed and coiffed she looks uncannily similar to my mother c. the early '80s, except not six feet tall.)

They take a lot of pains to get the look of the period right, though the characters, who are mostly supposed to be Boomers, talk like younger Gen Xers/older millenials. Not that that particularly matters for watching it, but it always fascinates me how seamlessly excellent the Hollywood technical people are at their jobs compared to most of the creatives. Some endeavors are perfectible, others aren't, I guess.
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Believe what you hear first. Believe what those most like you say. Believe what those like those you've trusted say. Believe what puts you and those you trust in a good light. Believe what puts those you don't trust in a bad light. Believe what makes you feel safe. Believe what makes you feel that some effort you're already invested in will make you safe. Believe what you hear most often. Believe what you heard when you were small enough to believe what you heard. Believe what's said most forcefully. Believe what's said by the largest, the loudest, the strongest-seeming. Believe what's said by those who look most like you assume smart people look. Believe what makes the way forward seem refreshingly easy - for you. Believe what makes the way forward seem plausibly hard - for some other. Believe what makes you feel you're smart enough to know what to believe. Believe what makes those who don't think you're smart seem stupid. Believe what settles the issue clearly. Believe what makes you distinctive for believing it. Believe what sources said to be magical say to believe. Believe what's most exciting. Believe what's most readily pictured. Believe what least unsettles your other beliefs. Believe what's said to you and not to them. Believe what makes everyone realize they can't stop you from believing it. Believe what you like the best. Believe the person who listens to you. Believe the one who gets you. Believe the one the others believe. Believe me.
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"But are there not many fascists in your country?"

"There are many who do not know they are fascists but will find it out when the time comes."

"But you cannot destroy them until they rebel?"

"No," Robert Jordan said. "We cannot destroy them. But we can educate the people so that they will fear fascism and recognize it as it appears and combat it."


...

'The eyes,' said Corrado. 'You said you felt as if there were eyes staring. Up to now they haven't been doing any staring: they kept their eyes down, and we weren't used to them any more . . . They were the enemies of the past, we hated what they had been, not them now. But now they've found their old stare . . . the way they looked at us eight years ago . . . We remember, and start feeling their eyes on us again . . .'

.

She was alone, outside there was the noise of the rain. Across a rain-soaked Europe the eyes of old enemies pierced the night, right through to her.

'I can see their eyes,' she thought, 'but they must see ours too.' And she stood firm, staring hard into the dark.
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"The better we become acquainted with the world the more interested we are in leaving it. But once out of the world nothing but world seems to suffice. So we all become collectors of those things of the world that are least worldly, but also of those things out of the world that are hardest to distinguish from it. Our self-questionings become versions of one basic confusion: whether we are almost at home here or almost not. We die smeared with life stained with death."

"A traveler by train witnesses the filling up of each window with dark. The stuff of day is gone, is one thought thought. Another is that past that sudden black the world is just as real. Night closes one set of eyes but leaves another. Perhaps the world it sees is even the realer. A third thought comes: those second eyes see much too poorly, without certainty, without detail, compared to those that see the window, the compartment, the interior lights, even the endless wall of night. But perhaps what we see here can stand in for what we might see there should light return. The much that cannot be recreated might be adequately modeled by a diligent rearrangement of this little that's left."

"One of those who came back into the cave after years outside in sunlight told me that he'd realized that light is not so different from darkness. Each is a sort of thin, dry, breathable water that floods an entire room. In darkness we are always wrong about where things end and where nothing begins, is one chief difference, but we are never infinitely wrong. Objects simply overlap, pass into one another, are several things at once - at least pragmatically. The other great difference is color, but those in the dark always think they see the full spectrum anyway. There is no belief they adhere to more tenaciously. But he had found, he insisted, that though this meant the music of those in darkness used far fewer notes their songs were no less complex, as they were longer. Those who dwell in light sing hardly at all - just a note or two, customarily, and that only to greet the rare and entirely predictable shiftings of the true sun from one visible part of the sky to another. These notes are exact, final, fulfilling. None is at all like another. They tell a complete story that includes their own telling. But any story can do that, and the most tedious audition of the worst cave story can suddenly veer into fulfilment. There is no joy out there that will not be felt here, by someone, at some point, in some way. And here one is not so alone."

"The knock at the door was the gods. Opening it flooded the building with them. They watched your every move out of countless eyes. They were without readable expression but you could not help feeling judged. It was a tense and unpleasant experience until you opened the refrigerator, took out an egg and cracked it. This created such a stir among the gods that you asked them if they wanted one. They shyly, somewhat disbelievingly ventured that they did. You beat it, cooked it in a buttered pan. You served it on that odd plate out, the one with the floral border. The gods crowded close in astonishment. Even with your help it took all of them to eat it, and then they spent the rest of the day in silence, thinking. But the next day they asked for another, and the next. They only left when you were out of eggs."

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