Duly Quoted

"A library is a hospital for the mind."

“Art and love are the same thing: It’s the process of seeing yourself in things that are not you. It’s understanding the unreasonable.”

Book: Killing Yourself to Live, Chuck Klosterman

I would first like to quote the charming individual who owned this book before me (I got it used). I don’t know who they are, but their additions to the margins were a joy to discover. My favorite:
“Football and church run the south and for good reason. We play hard and pray hard.”

YOU SAID IT BROTHER. Anyway, yet another pop-culture nonfiction book that I can’t help but enjoy. It’s fluffy; I guess some might say it’s not that literary; I enjoyed it immensely; I have no shame. So that’s that.


There is something sickeningly attractive about being in a bad relationship; you start feeding off the unhappiness. It becomes darkly interesting.

Let me begin by saying this: Death is part of life. Generally, it’s the shortest part of life, usually occurring near the end. However, this is not necessarily true for rock stars; sometimes rock stars don’t start living until they die.

The reason you should never cheat on someone is because you won’t enjoy it. No matter which person you’re with, you’ll always be thinking of the other one. You will never be in the romantic present tense; your mind will solely exist in the past and future.

“Because people who sincerely want to kill themselves don’t worry about which Beatles song they’d play while their bathtub fills with blood. Those kind of people don’t even like the Beatles.”

My problem is that every stupid person in Los Angeles is also a) unyieldingly narcissistic and b) unyieldingly nice. They have somehow managed to combine raging megalomania with genuine friendliness. It’s a personality combination that infects your blood like leukemia.

Seeing no resolution to my existential recognition of loss, I decided to eat lunch.

Meanwhile, me and Drinking Guy are trying to ascertain the relative danger of the situation, but we’re too stoned; we can’t tell if this behavior is incredibly grave or incredibly normal. This is the single-biggest problem with taking drugs: What’s normal seems crazy, and what’s crazy seems normal.

I hug her for the next seven hours on a very small bed, each of us facing the same wall. I kiss her neck for maybe 15 minutes, and she falls asleep halfway through. Clothing is never removed. Nobody gets crazy. Tomorrow, I will take a shower and leave before her digital clock reads 9:05 am. We will exchange cordial goodbyes. Later that day, Lenore will send me the nicest e-mail I’ve ever received from anyone, and reading it will make me want to hide in a cave for 10,000 years. It will make me feel like i am reading Lenore’s obituary in the newspaper. I will send her an e-mail in return, and hope that she finds endless happiness in life, and I will always secretly hope that she never likes another man as much as she likes me, even if she ultimately loves that man more. And we will never see each other again.

Women need to feel loved in order to feel free, so withholding love from your wife is like sentencing her to prison.

“People never show you what they’re truly like until you see them go ape-shit,” he says. “That’s the only time people say the things they really feel. Anger makes people honest. No matter how reasonable someone might seem, you never know for sure until they get mad.”

Art and love are the same thing: It’s the process of seeing yourself in things that are not you. It’s understanding the unreasonable.

We all have the potential to fall in love a thousand times in our lifetime. It’s easy. The first girl I ever loved was someone I knew in sixth grade. Her name was Missy; we talked about horses. The last girl I love will be someone I haven’t even met yet, probably. They all count. But there are certain people you love who do something else; they define how you classify what love is supposed to feel like. These are the most important people in your life, and you’ll meet maybe four or five of these people over the span of 80 years. But there’s still one more tier to all this; there is always one person who you love who becomes that definition. It usually happens retrospectively, but it always happens eventually. This is the person who unknowingly sets the template for what you will always love about other people, even if some of those lovable qualities are self-destructive and unreasonable. You will remember having conversations with this person that never actually happened. You will recall sexual trysts with this person that never technically occurred. This is because the individual who embodies your personal definition of love does not really exist. The person is real, and the feelings are real–but you create the context. And context is everything. The person who defines your understanding of love is not inherently different than anyone else, and they’re often just the person you happen to meet the first time you really, really want to love someone. But that person still wins. They win, and you lose. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everyone else.


Filed under: Chuck Klosterman,

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