Since I was a little boy — like most kids, I think — I’d been interested in infinity.
How, alas, does one excavate oneself from such careening thoughts in which truth is temporary, suspect, and often useless?
It all begins with a number.
My sister died about 14 months ago.
I’m sitting this morning in a café in San Francisco. I look around and I’m struck that almost everything I see is not only man made but is either for sale or in the service of selling.
The banal is beautiful.
Being happy is awesome. I mean, who doesn’t want to be happy? On the other hand, to be happy is to be dependent on what’s happening.
All thinking is tropic.
What is it we want from television, not to mention art, philosophy, poetry, literature, film, the world in general?
As far as the social and political is concerned, I feel I have done well living as a non-fascist. I