People say great art is immortal. I say there's something mortal in it. It carries a glimpse of death.
Don DeLilloAir travel reminds us who we are. It’s the means by which we recognize ourselves as modern. The process removes us from the world and sets us apart from each other. We wander in the ambient noise, checking one more time for the flight coupon, the boarding pass, the visa. The process convinces us that at any moment we may have to submit to the force that is implied in all this, the unknown authority behind it, behind the categories, the languages we don’t understand. This vast terminal has been erected to examine souls.
Don DeLilloThe view is endlessly fulfilling. It is like the answer to a lifetime of questions and vague cravings.
Don DeLilloTags: beauty peace nature self-knowledge eureka-moments
I was always younger than anyone around me. One day it began to change.
Don DeLilloThere was something theatrical about the protest, ingratiating even. . . . There was a shadow of transaction between the demonstrators and the state. The protest was a form of systemic hygiene, purging and lubricating. It attested again, for the ten thousandth time, to the market culture’s innovative brilliance, its ability to shape itself to its own flexible ends, absorbing everything around it.
Don DeLilloTags: systems state protest demonstrator
She was a voice with a body as afterthought, a wry smile that sailed through heavy traffic. Give her a history and she'd disappear.
Eric Packer about Vija Kinski
The novel is a fucking killer. I try to show it every respect.
Don DeLilloThe truth of the world is exhausting.
Don DeLilloIt is when death is rendered graphically, is televised so to speak, that you sense an eerie separation between your condition and yourself. A network of symbols has been introduced, an entire awesome technology wrested from the gods. It makes you feel like a stranger in your own dying.
Don DeLilloTags: death postmodernism
The only private language I know is self-exaggeration. I think I've grown a second self in this room. It's the self-important fool that keeps the writer going. I exaggerate the pain of writing, the pain of solitude, the failure, the rage, the confusion, the helplessness, the fear, the humiliation. The narrower the boundaries of my life, the more I exaggerate myself. If the pain is real, why do I inflate it? Maybe this is the only pleasure I'm allowed.
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