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You asked me how I, being immortal, survive so many deaths. There is no great secret. You endure what is unbearable, and you bear it. That is all. ↗
Living is really hard, but death is forever. We’re all going to die eventually, so what’s your rush' Even if you think committing suicide will make you seem tragic and romantic and cool, you’ll never know what happened anyway. Don’t you want to know how your life was supposed to turn out. Wouldn’t you like to see what you’re made of? ↗
Human. Happiness. Death. Everything becomes one pale memory in the flow of time. Spirit - always want the impossible and feel pain. Memory - an attempt to find entirety in the endless parody called human life. Freedom, policy, power, sex, violence, destruction, war. All extremes of ego are unconscious rebellion against death and loneliness. When you realize, the meaning is lost. I just want to believe: when I die, I will flying like a bird... or like dream... ↗
Nobody knows how many North Koreans have died or are dying in the famine—some estimates by foreign-aid groups run as high as three million in the period from 1995 to 1998 alone—but the rotund, jowly face of Kim Il Sung still beams down contentedly from every wall, and the 58-year-old son looks as chubby as ever, even as his slenderized subjects are mustered to applaud him. ↗
It was as though they were intentionally stepping nearer to their graves. As he sat waiting on the edge of the bed he thought again of the cellars of the Ministry of Love. It was curious how that predestined horror moved in and out of one's consciousness. There it lay, fixed in future time, preceding death as surely as 99 precedes 100. One could not avoid it, but one could perhaps postpone it: and yet instead, every now and again, by a conscious, willful act, one chose to shorten the interval before it happened. ↗
I was especially riveted by an amateur photograph in Herrero’s book, taken late at night by a camper with a flash at a campground out West. The photograph caught four black bears as they puzzled over a suspended food bag. The bears were clearly startled but not remotely alarmed by the flash. It was not the size or demeanor of the bears that troubled me — they looked almost comically unagressive, like four guys who had gotten a Frisbee caught up a tree — but their numbers. Up to that moment it had not occurred to me that bears might prowl in parties. What on earth would I do if four bears came into my camp? Why, I would die, of course. Literally shit myself lifeless. I would blow my sphincter out my backside like one of those unrolling paper streamers you get at children’s parties — I daresay it would even give a merry toot — and bleed to a messy death in my sleeping bag. ↗
