But there’s a Sufi story that challenges the notion that people believe only because they need an opiate. Rabe’a al-Adiwiyah, a great woman saint of Sufism, was seen running through the streets of her hometown, Basra, carrying a torch in one hand and a bucket of water in the other. When someone asked her what she was doing, she answered, ‘I am going to take this bucket of water and pour it on the flames of hell, and then I am going to use this torch to burn down the gates of paradise so that people will not love God for want of heaven or fear of hell, but because He is God.
John GreenStichwörter: god heaven afterlife hell
He knew he couldn't tell stories, that he always included extraneous details
John GreenStichwörter: just-like-me
They like their coffee like they like their ex-boyfriends: bitter.
John GreenStichwörter: hehehe
I don't really care how people read. I care if people read.
John GreenI believe in hope, in what is something called ”radical hope.” I believe there is hope for all of us, even amid the suffering. And that’s why I write fiction, probaby. It’s my attempt to keep that fragile strand of radical hope, to buld a fire in the darkness.r
John GreenDude, if Kentucky is going to remind you of Paris, we're in a hell of a pickle.
John GreenHow will I ever get out of this labyrinth!" to a margin note written in her loop-heavy cursive: Straight
John GreenStichwörter: wise
Truth resists simplicity.
John GreenI came to the conclusion a while ago that there is nothing romantic or supernatural about loving someone: Love is the privilege of being responsible for another. It was, for a time, what kept me going: Each morning, for a little while, I got to feel the weight of the yoke on my back as I pulled the ancient cart of my species.
John GreenStichwörter: love privilege zombies
The Z’s will kill us all, and then the Z’s will die out and in sixty
years there will be no one to remember our silly war, Caroline’s
wasted ammunition, my year of zombic survivalism, Rene DesCartes’s
musings, or Michelangelo’s sculptures. And that is really only the
sadness here as I drink a thousand-dollar bottle of wine down here
in the cellar: We did a few things worth remembering, and I wish for
someone to remember them.
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