"
And the so-called real world will not discourage you from operating on your default settings, because the so-called real world of men and money and power hums merrily along in a pool of fear and anger and frustration and craving and worship of self. Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom. The freedom all to be lords of our tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the centre of all creation. This kind of freedom has much to recommend it. But of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talk about much in the great outside world of wanting and achieving…. The really important kind of freedom involves attention and awareness and discipline, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them over and over in myriad petty, unsexy ways every day.
That is real freedom. That is being educated, and understanding how to think. The alternative is unconsciousness, the default setting, the rat race, the constant gnawing sense of having had, and lost, some infinite thing.
"
David Foster Wallace, 2005 Kenyon College commencement speech
Endings
3AM. Going home. Dew on the seat of my motorbike. The tangle of cables overhead, strung along uneven poles. Dogs dozing along residential streets; unwelcome behind unimpressive homes. Skirting around the periphery of the neighborhood. One side homes, the other an empty field, stalks green and long. A golden crescent of a moon, cliche in its perfectness.
"‘There were times when my mother had come down and kept me company, sitting quietly in the blackness as I struggled to load film onto the developing reel. Together we would breathe in the chemical smells, their corrosiveness, from which my hands were protected by rubber gloves, nothing compared with what was taking place inside her body. She would keep time for me with her watch, familiarizing herself with the process enough to be able to tell me when to pour the series of fluids in and out of the processing tank, both of us knowing that I’d have to buy a timer, eventually. “It must be something like this,” she said once in that perfectly dark, silent, sealed space, and I understood without her saying so that she was imagining what it might be like to be dead.’"
“Year’s End” by Jhumpa Lahiri
"…Conroy suggests that writers imagine their readers carrying a backpack up a steep mountain. As the reader ascends the mountain - that is, as she proceeds through the story - every piece of information is a rock that the author is instructing the reader to pick up and place in the backpack. Upon reaching the end of the story, this backpack will be bulging with details and events and scenes and characters, and if the reader starts unpacking the bag and finds that she shouldered any unnecessary rocks, the story has failed and the reader no longer trusts the reader."