But a few choosing to venture deeper into the painful corridors of their affliction, found after a while that they could now grind and polish ever more exotic surfaces, hyperboloidial and even stranger, eventually including what we must term ‘imaginary’ shapes (which some preferred to term invisible).
Interpretation
Embracing pain can lead to unexpected growth and creativity.
In this quote, Thomas Pynchon suggests that those who willingly face their struggles and delve into their suffering can uncover new depths of creativity and insight. The idea of moving through pain allows individuals to transform their experiences into something unique and profound, revealing abstract and 'invisible' notions that might not be accessible without such exploration.
In practice
In a motivational speech about resilience, one might cite this quote to inspire listeners to face challenges head-on.
It's been a prevalent notion. Fallen sparks. Fragments of vessels broken at the Creation. And someday, somehow, before the end, a gathering back to home. A messenger from the Kingdom, arriving at the last moment. But I tell you there is no such message, no such home -- only the millions of last moments . . . nothing more. Our history is an aggregate of last moments.
So the city became the material expression of a particular loss of innocence – not sexual or political innocence but somehow a shared dream of what a city might at its best prove to be – its inhabitants became, and have remained, an embittered and amnesiac race, wounded but unable to connect through memory to the moment of injury, unable to summon the face of their violator.
Losing faith is a complicated business and takes time. There are no epiphanies, no "moments of truth." It takes much thought and concentration in the later phases, which thenselves come about through an accumulation of small accidents: examples of general injustice, misfortune falling upon the godly, prayers of one's own unanswered.
If there is something comforting - religious, if you want - about paranoia, there is still also anti-paranoia, where nothing is connected to anything, a condition not many of us can bear for long.
He gazes through sunlight's buttresses, back down the refectory at the others, wallowing in their plenitude of bananas, thick palatals of their hunger lost somewhere in the stretch of morning between them and himself. A hundred miles of it, so suddenly. Solitude, even among the meshes of this war, can when it wishes so take him by the blind gut and touch, as now, possessively. Pirate's again some other side of a window, watching strangers eat breakfast.
Like so many named places in California it was less an identifiable city than a grouping of concepts--census tracts, special purpose bond-issue districts, shopping nuclei, all overlaid with access roads to its own freeway.
Dreams are the eraser dust I blow off my page._x000D_ _x000D_ They fade into the emptiness, another dark gray day._x000D_ _x000D_ Dreams are only memories of the plans I had back then._x000D_ _x000D_ Dreams are eraser dust and now I use a pen.
The only thing grief has taught me is to know how shallow it is.
It is the constant fault and inseparable evil quality of ambition, that it never looks behind it.
Winning and losing, that's never been my objective. It's my hope that in the fullness of time, the majority of the court will come to see things as I do.
Of all mad faiths maddest is the faith that we can get rid of faith.
Memory is the scribe of the soul.
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