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Entropy

@hush-syrup / hush-syrup.tumblr.com

hush evening swims into grass hush watersleep rains
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reblogged
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mttbll
I feel the risk; I am almost holding my breath; one interruption—a knock at the door or a telephone call—could destroy either the whole piece or at least the nice sentence that was just then forming. This is because, as you write one sentence, you are at the same time forming the next, and even, more approximately, several more in your head, and at the same time holding the door open for more sentences or approximate ideas to come flowing in from that mysterious place that sentences and ideas come from. This is a very delicate state of mind. You try to maintain it for as long as you can, or need to. Then, you are relieved to have gotten through this stage of the work without losing or missing what you wanted to write down. You are relatively safe, once this stage is done, or rather the work you have done is relatively safe.

By Lydia Davis (via mttbll)

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Well, such a direct person I regard as the real normal man, as his tender mother nature wished to see him when she graciously brought him into being on the earth. I envy such a man till I am green in the face. He is stupid. I am not disputing that, but perhaps the normal man should be stupid, how do you know? Perhaps it is very beautiful, in fact. And I am the more persuaded of that suspicion, if one can call it so, by the fact that if you take, for instance, the antithesis of the normal man, that is, the man of acute consciousness, who has come, of course, not out of the lap of nature but out of a retort (this is almost mysticism, gentlemen, but I suspect this, too), this retort-made man is sometimes so nonplussed in the presence of his antithesis that with all his exaggerated consciousness he genuinely thinks of himself as a mouse and not a man. It may be an acutely conscious mouse, yet it is a mouse, while the other is a man, and therefore, etc, etc. And the worst of it is, he himself, his very own self, looks on himself as a mouse; no one asks him to do so; and that is an important point.

From Notes from the Underground by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

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God moves in extremely mysterious, not to say, circuitous ways. God does not play dice with the universe; He plays an ineffable game of His own devising, which might be compared, from the perspective of any of the other players, [ie., everybody.] to being involved in an obscure and complex version of poker in a pitch-dark room, with blank cards, for infinite stakes, with a Dealer who won't tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time .

From Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman

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