Sometimes I like to think I live with ghosts. Not from my past, but wispy bits of ideas and books that hang in the air like silk puppets. Sometimes I think I see my own ideas, floating around too, but they usually dont last that long. Theyre more like mayflies; theyre born, big and gleaming, and then they fly around, buzzing like crazy before they fall to the floor, dead, about twenty four hours later.
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Patrick opens his arms about three feet wide and, with one finger pointing up on each hand, tries to show the scope of this thing. I notice that he doesn’t look at his hands as he does this, but at the wall behind me. It suddenly occurs to me that when people describe size this way, they’re relying on perspective to help them. He’s not saying ‘It’s this big.’ He’s saying ‘It would look this big from here if it was over there.
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One minute I was playing chess and doing maths all the time, the next I had been rerouted into more normal girls activities: reading, writing stories and worrying about my clothes.
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Nothing means anything but you still have to follow the rules.
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The sky is grey, with a thin TV-static drizzle that hangs in the air like its been freeze-framed.
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Sometimes I wake up with such an immense sense of disappointment that I can hardly breathe.
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Some writers, notably Anton Chekov, argue that all characters must be admirable, because once weve looked at anyone deeply enough and understood their motivation we must identify with them rather than judge them.
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“But I quite like the way you can talk about science without necessarily using mathematics, but using metaphors instead.”
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