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In moments of sweet clarity, Hugo said, I doubt if we can communicate at all. You mean one thing, I hear another, benignly in banter, violently in an argument. But, said Mariana, we've never had an argument. Of course not, Hugo said, and don't intend to. I mean that human beings probably can't make each other understand what they mean. We have to get our meaning from art, from writing. That's awful, Mariana said.
— Guy Davenport, The Bicycle Rider ‎· full of melancholy details
Why do we wear clothes, Kim asked, when it feels so good to have air all over you? To keep people from going crazy looking at you, Anders said. ‎· full of melancholy details
The young are in their own minds immortal, and assume Olympian indifference to their own deaths. They die drunk on dormitory floors, in automobile wrecks, hundreds a day, on futile battlefields, needles under their tongues, in their arms, in epileptic seizures for want of a fix, but this violent and pitiful mortality does not disturb their liquid minds any more than the screams of the dying at Waterloo caught the attention of the geese in the sky above them. ‎· full of melancholy details
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