The love I felt for her on that train ride had a capital and provinces, parishes and a Vatican, an orange planet and many sullen moons -- it was systemic and it was complete.
Gary ShteyngartRead
My hair would continue to gray, and then one day, it would fall out entirely, and then, on a day meaninglessly close to the present one, meaninglessly like the present one, I would disappear from the earth. And all these emotions, all these yearnings, all these data, if that helps to clinch the enormity of what I'm talking about, would be gone. And that's what immortality means. It means selfishness. My generations belief that each one of us matters more than you or anyone else would think.
Interpretation
What this quote means
The quote reflects on the inevitability of death and the selfish desire for immortality, emphasizing the transient nature of human emotions and existence.
In this quote, Gary Shteyngart explores the profound idea that while individuals may yearn for immortality and the belief that their lives matter greatly, the reality is that with death, all emotions and experiences will vanish. This perspective prompts a contemplation of self-importance and the selfishness inherent in the desire for lasting significance, as it suggests that we believe our individual lives hold immense value beyond what others perceive.
Themes
ImmortalitySelfishnessExistenceTransienceHumanity
In practice
Example use cases
This quote can be used in a speech about the importance of embracing life and its fleeting nature.
More from Gary Shteyngart
All quotes →In contravention of my belief that any life ending in death is essentially pointless, I needed my friends to open up that plastic bag and take one last look at me. Someone had to remember me, if only for a few more minutes in the vast silent waiting room of time.
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That's what tyrants do, I guess. They make you covet their attention; they make you confuse attention for mercy.
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When civilization takes a nose dive, how can you look away? You've got to be there. You've got to be at the bottom of the swimming pool taking notes.
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Every returning New Yorker asks the question: Is this still my city? I have a ready answer, cloaked in obstinate despair: It is. And if it's not, I will love it all the more. I will love it to the point where it becomes mine again.
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Then I celebrated my Wall of Books. I counted the volumes on my twenty-foot-long modernist bookshelf to make sure none had been misplaced or used as kindling by my subtenant. “You’re my sacred ones,” I told the books. “No one but me still cares about you. But I’m going to keep you with me forever. And one day I’ll make you important again.” I thought about that terrible calumny of the new generation: that books smell.
Gary ShteyngartRead
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