2017 in Review: Quotes Part 2

…continuing with quoting stuff…

Издалека доносилась тишина —Булгаков, Театральный роман

Бомбардов был актером Независимого Театра, сказал, что слышал мою пьесу и что, по его мнению, это хорошая пьеса. С первого же момента я почему-то подружился с Бомбардовым. Он произвел на меня впечатление очень умного, наблюдательного человека —Булгаков, Театральный роман

I thought I disliked Phish. Then I went to my first Phish show. Now I know I dislike Phish — the subhed to Zach Schonfeld’s article on Phish

Проезжие прохожих реже
Еще храпит Москва деляг
Тверскую жрет, Тверскую режет
Сорокасильный каделляк
—Маяковский Москва—Кенигсберг

The apex of craziness came when people accused Lech Wałęsa of collaboration. Set aside the question of whether people should be pilloried for mistakes they made forty years ago. If the secret police hired Wałęsa, that was the worst hiring decision in the history of time. —Maciej Ciegłowski

What I mean is that by walking you are not going to meet yourself. By walking, you escape from the very idea of identity, the temptation to be someone, to have a name and a history. Being someone is all very well for smart parties where everyone is telling their story, it’s all very well for psychologists’ consulting rooms. But isn’t being someone also a social obligation which trails in its wake – for one has to be faithful to the self-portrait – a stupid and burdensome fiction? The freedom in walking lies in not being anyone; for the walking body has no history, it is just an eddy in the stream of immemorial life. —Frédéric Gros, A Philosophy of Walking

Nick handed me a pork chop on a stick, which I devoured. When we got back on the plane, I told him “I want you to know that I did not eat that pork chop on a stick because it is politically necessary. I ate that pork chop on a stick because it was delicious.” —Hilary Clinton, What Happened

Items that became unavailable in Hungary at various times due to planning failures included “the kitchen tool used to make Hungarian noodles,” “bath plugs that fit tubs in stock; cosmetics shelves; and the metal box necessary for electrical wiring in new apartment buildings.” As a local newspaper editorial complained in the 1960s, these things “don’t seem important until the moment one needs them, and suddenly they are very important!” —Seth Ackerman

—Любопытно. А я когда-то даже увлекался Наполеоном. Почитывал кое-что. За что ты его так не любишь?
—Коротко?
—Если сумеешь.
—Чтоб не искать новых слов—за бонапартизм
—Александр Крон Бессонница

My solipsistic authorial habits would seem to feed into a common misconception about writing, which is that it is merely a conduit for the writer’s interiority, and that a good writer—or even just a capable one—possesses the skills to transfer the contents of that interiority onto the page with as little loss as possible. Much of the creative-writing industry depends upon that misconception and the promise, implicit or explicit, that the acquisition of those skills is unconditionally achievable. I’ve grown to be suspicious of that notion, as I have learned that writing generates the content and therefore transforms—or even creates—the interiority.  —Aleksandar Hemon

These animals are phantoms as well as monsters. They are, because they exist; if they were not, reason would be justified. They are the amphibia of death. Their improbability complicates their existence. They border on the human frontier, and people the region of Chimeras. You deny the vampire, the octopus appears. Their swarming is a certainty which disconcerts our assurance. Optimism, which is the truth, nevertheless almost loses countenance before them. —Victor Hugo on the octopus

For many years, I have been moved by the blue at the far edge of what can be seen, that color of horizons, of remote mountain ranges, of anything far away. The color of that distance is the color of an emotion, the color of solitude and of desire, the color of there seen from here, the color of where you are not. And the color of where you can never go. For the blue is not in the place those miles away at the horizon, but in the atmospheric distance between you and the mountains. “Longing,” says the poet Robert Hass, “because desire is full of endless distances.” Blue is the color of longing for the distances you never arrive in, for the blue world.  — Rebecca Solnit, A Field Guide to Getting Lost

Suffer no man and no cause to escape the undying penalty which history has the power to inflict on wrong. —Lord Acton, quoted by Bryan Caplan

You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it. —Rabbi Tarfon

—I have trouble with procrastinating
—Did you ever think of… just getting your work in on time?
—Yes, I have thought of it. I have trouble doing it
—from Mistress America

—It’s so weird that every restaurant I see is the result of a person going “I think I want to start a restaurant” —from Mistress America

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