I don't know," i said. "maybe you're right, and all that stuff i think i missed is overrated. Why should i even bother? What's the point really?" he thought for a moment. "who says there has to be a point?" he asked. "or a reason. Maybe it's just something you have to do." he moved down to start bagging while i just stood there, letting this sink in. Just something you have to do. No excuse or rationale necessary. I kind of like that.
Except in the areas of civil rights and medical marijuana, the legacy of the sixties counterculture has been largely superficial. Still, though the light has dimmed and gone underground, something in me would like to think the sixties phenomenon was a dress rehearsal for a grander, wider leap in consciousness yet to come.
The worst time in any writer's life is the two months before publication. All writers become mental and pathetic, even those of devout faith, who have some psychological healing to lean up against, and gorgeous lives. All writers think that this time, the jig is up, and they will be exposed as frauds.
I am looking forward very much to getting back to cambridge, and being able to say what i think and not to mean what i say: two things which at home are impossible. Cambridge is one of the few places where one can talk unlimited nonsense and generalities without anyone pulling one up or confronting one with them when one says just the opposite the next day.
You don't think i can fight." tessa said, drawing back and matching his silvery gaze with her own. "because i'm a girl." "i don't think you can fight because you're wearing a wedding dress", said jem. "for what it's worth, i don't think will could fight in that dress either." "perhaps not," said will, who had ears like a bat'a. "but i would make a radiant bride.
And then she frowned, and shook her head, then put her arms around him once more, pressing her face into his shoulder, making a noise that sounded almost like rage. 'what's up?' he asked. 'nothing. Oh, nothing. Just...' she looked up at him. 'i thought i'd finally got rid of you.' 'i don't think you can.' he said
What's that?" "it looks like something from linus... It is! He sent me a little birch-bark canoe from camp! He said he made it himself... Sometimes i think i don't deserve a nice brother like linus..." "i have often thought the same thing." "dear linus, please send me another canoe. The first one broke when i threw it at charlie brown.
The chicken noticed that the farmer came every day to feed it. It predicted that the farmer would continue to bring food every day. Inductivists think that the chicken had "extrapolated" its observations into a theory, and that each feeding time added justification to that theory. Then one day the farmer came and wrung the chicken's neck. This inductively justifies the conclusion that induction cannot justify any conclusion.
People are more interested in reading bombastic ideas, whether they're positive or negative. Part of me has sort of lost interest in doing criticism because of that. I've always realized that criticism is basically autobiography. Obviously in my criticism, it's very clear that it's autobiography, but i think it's that way for everybody.
Man corrupt everything, say shug. He on your box of grits, in your head, and all over the radio. He try to make you think he everywhere. Soon as you think he everywhere, you think he god. But he ain't. Whenever you trying to pray, and man plop himself on the other end of it, tell him to git lost, say shug. Conjure up the flowers, wind, water, a big rock.