Epilogue: Coming Soon: Superpowers for Ordinary People
"How am I supposed to read a book if I don't already know what it's about? Or at least have some idea about what to think of it before I read it. Will it be the "book of the year"? Will it be "the one book to put on my reading list"? Will it be the "can't put-down read of the summer"? Or the book that "changes the game" for literature? Has it even been nominated for any awards? I mean-what is it? How am I supposed to read it if I don't know what it is." --Unlikely Blonde
"One of the unsung great prose stylists of our time." -- Someone Named Mark
Basically: life’s not worth living. At least that’s what I thought. And it was just typical of Deaf to get into a conversation that I couldn’t really be a part of.
(nihilism – the view that nothing exists or that
existence or values are meaningless)
“He was saying that the way we as humans
think is okay but it’s the world that’s fucked up and I was saying that the world is okay but the way that we as humans think is fucked up.”
To know me is to know music and the bridge to heaven. In all the world and its history the
mechanism through which one forgets (for bursts) the isolation and (out of fear of misshapen cartography) immolation of the self (everyone has their own and mine is self).
I understand this symphony as a woman in a lace dress, her earrings the Romanian gymnast. We make her so and her soul in paradise. The symphony comes from her tears.
The cartography of her hip and spine when she turns—they come from her tears. The harmonica written on her smooth belly in backward arcs around her naval a spiral and aloft we spy (as such aloft) the outlines of
her remarkable, unconquered lands.
She cannot hate us no matter the depths of our cruelty. She wants to do something (if just for a moment). She is more noble than we (we hear it in the singular note). She falls apart whole. She comes to pieces whole. And we are to blame.