“... In essence, you are saying that, today, the quality of the marble from which we as human beings are shaped is meager stuff compared to the metaphorical marble of Michelangelo’s time."The Sculptor receives:
“That’s a lovely way of putting it, yes.”
“And only the sculptor’s hand—whether it’s Michelangelo’s or the twisted psychopath’s who murdered Campbell and Wenick—can free us from the marble prison that is the media..”
"Like one time, my thesis adviser was giving a tour of our lab to a bunch of undergrads. He was trying to demonstrate hierarchical dominance among macaques. On his cue, this male called Bingo started chewing on my thigh and corralled me into the corner of the enclosure. Before the entire class, Bingo showed that he, an unremarkable adolescent monkey, significantly outranked me."The Imperfectionists receives:
She smiles. "Is that why you quit graduate school?"
"The matters are not unrelated."
But we were all so keenly tuned in to picking up her response, and that's probably why it had such an effect on us. As she came to a halt, I glanced quickly at her face -- as did the others, I'm sure. And I can still see it now, the shudder she seemed to be suppressing, the real dread that one of us would accidentally brush against her. And though we just kept on walking, we all felt it; it was like we walked from the sun right into chilly shade. Ruth had been right: Madame was afraid of us. But she was afraid of us in the same way that someone might be afraid of spiders. We hadn't been ready for that. It had never occurred to us to wonder how we would feel, being seen like that, being the spiders.Never Let Me Go receives:
Her eyes, which are a brilliant and dazzling shade of blue custom-made for sparkling mockingly, sparkle mockingly at him.
' - I mean, if it was really a lucky condom, wouldn't you have used it by now?'
'How long have you had it in there, Mario?' Geoff says.
'Three years," Mario says.
'Three years?'
'Without using it?'
'Doesn't that sound more like an unlucky condom?'
Mario looks troubled as his unshakable faith in the luckiness of the lucky condom begins to show cracks.
'It was definitely pretty unlucky for the condom, to wind up in your wallet!'
'Yeah, Mario, your wallet is like the Alcatraz of condoms.'
'It's like the condom Bermuda Triangle!'
'Condoms tell each other stories about your wallet, "Oh, he disappeared into Mario Bianchi's wallet, and was never heard from again."'
'Yeah, I bet right this very second your lucky condom is in there whistling the theme from The Great Escape and digging a tunnel out of your wallet with a plastic coffee stirrer -'
This is a world, he is thinking, where you can lie in bed, listening to a song as you dream about someone you love, and the feelings and the music will resonate so powerfully and completely that it seems impossible that the beloved, whoever and whereever he or she might be, should not know, should not pick up this signal as it pulsates from your heart, as if you and the music and the love and the whole universe have merged into one force that can be channeled out into the darkness to bring them this message. But in actuality, not only will he or she not know, there is nothing to stop that other person from lying on his or her bed at the exact same moment listening to the exact same song and thinking about someone else entirely - from aiming those identical feelings in some completely opposite direction, at some totally other person, who may in turn be lying in the dark thinking of another person still, a fourth, who is thinking of a fifth, and so on, and so on; so that rather than a universe of neatly reciprocating parts, love and love-returned fluttering through space nicely and symmetrically like so many pairs of butterfly wings, instead we get chains of yearning, which sprawl and meander and culminate in an infinite number of dead ends.
“For eleven years, I’ve been worked over and abused in ways you can’t imagine by things you don’t want to know about. I’ve killed every kind of vile, black-souled, dead-eyed nightmare that ever made you piss your pj’s and cry for mommy in the middle of the night. I kill monsters and, if I wanted, I could say a word and burn you to powder from the inside out. I can tear any human you ever met to wet rags with my bare hands. Give me one reason why I could possibly need you?”Sandman Slim receives:
She looks straight up at me, not blinking. No fear in her eyes. “Because, you might be the Tasmanian Devil and the Angel of Death all rolled into one, but you don’t even know how to get a phone.”
I hate to admit it, but she has a point.
Jean-Joseph Sue, the librarian at the Paris School of Medicine, declar[ed] his belief that the heads could hear, smell, see, and think. He tried to convince his colleagues to undertake an experiment whereby "before the butchery of the victim," a few of the unfortunate's friends would arrange a code of eyelid or jaw movements which the head could use after the execution to indicate whether it was "fully conscious of [its] agony." Sue's colleagues in the medical community dismissed his idea as ghastly and absurd, and the experiment was not carried out. Nonetheless, the notion of the living head had made its way into the public consciousness and even popular literature.Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers receives:
Let me tell you about revenge. Particularly murderous revenge.Beat the Reaper receives:
It's a bad idea. For one thing, it doesn't last. The reason they tell you revenge is best served cold is not so you'll take the time to get it right, but so you'll spend longer on the fun part, which is the planning and the expectation.
For another thing, even if you get away with it, murdering someone is bad for you. It murders something in yourself, and has all kinds of other consequences you can't possibly foresee. By way of example: eight years after I shot the Virzi brothers, Skinflick completely destroyed my life, and I threw him headfirst out a six-story window.
But on that night in early 1993, all I could feel was the joy.
