the child grows enormous but never grows up
I wanted to look up words. I wanted to look up velleity and quotidian and memorize the fuckers for all time, spell them, learn them, pronounce them syllable by syllable—vocalize, phonate, utter the sounds, say the words for all they’re worth. This is the only way in the world you can escape the things that made you.
Don DeLillo, Underworld (via mianoti)
I’m trying to outrun myself.
Don DeLillo, Americana (via doctorsax)
Cotter feels a mood coming on, a complicated self-pity, the strength going out of his arms and a voice commencing in his head that reproaches him for caring. And the awful part is that he wallows in it. He knows how to find the twisty compensation in this business of losing, being a loser, drawing it out, expanding it, making it sickly sweet, being someone carefully chosen for the role.

Don DeLillo, Underworld. My entire life is a complicated self-pity.

(Surprised at “sickly sweet,” though; it had long been a cliché by the time Underworld was written. Could it be deliberate? As a boy’s self aspires to archetypes, takes the shape of a tradition, the language takes the shape of a cliché. No, that’s not sensible, is it?).

(via mills)

sensible but unnecessary?

sometimes clichés are best/most apt?

besides, it’s not an altogether original or unique sentiment (or description of a sentiment).

How strange it is. We have these deep terrible lingering fears about ourselves and the people we love. Yet we walk around, talk to people, eat and drink. We manage to function. The feelings are deep and real. Shouldn’t they paralyze us? How is it we can survive them, at least for a little while? We drive a car, we teach a class. How is it no one sees how deeply afraid we were, last night, this morning? Is it something we all hide from each other, by mutual consent? Or do we share the same secret without knowing it? Wear the same disguise?
Don DeLillo (via narcotic)
No sense of the irony of human experience, that we are the highest form of life on earth, and yet ineffably sad because we know what no other animal knows, that we must die
Don DeLillo (via thelifeguardlibrarian)
Who knows what I want to do? Who knows what anyone wants to do? How can you be sure about something like that? Isn’t it all a question of brain chemistry, signals going back and forth, electrical energy in the cortex? How do you know whether something is really what you want to do or just some kind of nerve impulse in the brain? Some minor little activity takes place somewhere in this unimportant place in one of the brain hemispheres and suddenly I want to go to Montana or I don’t want to go to Montana. How do I know I really want to go and it isn’t just some neurons firing or something? Maybe it’s just an accidental flash in the medulla and suddenly there I am in Montana and I find out I really didn’t want to go there in the first place. I can’t control what happens in my brain, so how can I be sure what I want to do ten seconds from now, much less Montana next summer? It’s all this activity in the brain and you don’t know what’s you as a person and what’s some neuron that just happens to fire or just happens to misfire.
Don DeLillo, White Noise (via lettersofcolor)
How human it is to see a thing as something else.
Don DeLillo, Underworld