The writer is the person who stands outside society, independent of affiliation and independent of influence.
Don DelilloRead
I embarked on my life - I didn't do anything. I don't have an explanation.
Interpretation
The quote reflects on the complexity of existence and the often inexplicable nature of our choices in life.
In this quote, Don Delillo expresses the notion that life is more about the journey and our experiences than about having a clear or rational explanation for our actions or decisions. It suggests that simply living and embracing life is an act in itself, regardless of whether one understands the reasoning behind it. This can invoke a sense of humility in the face of life's intricacies and unpredictability.
In practice
This quote can be used in a philosophical discussion about the meaning of life.
The writer is the person who stands outside society, independent of affiliation and independent of influence.
War is the form nostalgia takes when men are hard-pressed to say something good about their country.
American writers ought to stand and live in the margins, and be more dangerous.
For me, writing is a concentrated form of thinking.
I used to think it was possible for an artist to alter the inner life of the culture. Now bomb-makers and gunmen have taken that territory.
[I]n the American soul there is a lonely individual standing in a vast landscape. β¨He is either on a horse or driving a car, depending, and either way heβs carrying a gun. β¨This is one of the essential images in American mythology.
Never take over the world to tamper with it. Those who want to tamper with it are not fit to take over the world.
To observations which ourselves we make, we grow more partial for th' observer's sake.
Requiescat Tread lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow. All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust. Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew. Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast, I vex my heart alone She is at rest. Peace, Peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my lifeβs buried here, Heap earth upon it.
Others go to bed with their mistresses; I with my ideas.
The empty blue sky of space says 'All this comes back to me, then goes again, and comes back again, then goes again, and I don't care, it still belongs to me
Language is a virus from outer space.
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