A short story is the ultimate close-up magic trick -- a couple of thousand words to take you around the universe or break your heart.
Sometimes human beings are very much like bees. Bees are fiercely protective of their hive, provided you are outside it. Once you’re in, the workers sort of assume that it must have been cleared by management and take no notice; various freeloading insects have evolved a mellifluous existence because of this very fact. Humans act the same way.
Interpretation
What this quote means
Humans can be protective of their community but may be oblivious to those within it while allowing others to benefit from their acceptance.
In this quote, Neil Gaiman draws a parallel between human behavior and that of bees, emphasizing how both can be fiercely protective of their own groups or communities. Outside of the group, individuals are vigilant against outsiders, yet once someone is accepted, the scrutiny diminishes, allowing for a certain ignorance regarding those beneficiaries who may not contribute. This serves as a commentary on social dynamics and the inclusivity found within communities, highlighting both the protective instincts and the blind spots that can arise in human relationships.
Themes
In practice
Example use cases
During a team meeting, this quote could be used to discuss group dynamics and acceptance within the workplace.
More from Neil Gaiman
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As a teenager I wrote to R.A. Lafferty. And he responded, too, with letters that were like R.A. Lafferty short stories, filled with elliptical answers to straight questions and simple answers to complicated ones.
The important thing to understand about American history, wrote Mr. Ibis, in his leather-bound journal, is that it is fictional, a charcoal-sketched simplicity for the children, or the easily bored.
Nothing’s changed. You’ll go home. You’ll be bored. You’ll be ignored. No one will listen to you, really listen to you. You’re too clever and too quiet for them to understand. They don’t even get your name right.
I like the stars. It's the illusion of permanence, I think. I mean, they're always flaring up and caving in and going out. But from here, I can pretend...I can pretend that things last. I can pretend that lives last longer than moments. Gods come, and gods go. Mortals flicker and flash and fade. Worlds don't last; and stars and galaxies are transient, fleeting things that twinkle like fireflies and vanish into cold and dust. But I can pretend.
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Women want everything of a lover. And too often I would sink below the surface. So armies disappear under sand. And there was her fear of her husband, her belief in her honour, my old desire for self-sufficiency, my disappearances, her suspicions of me, my disbelief that she loved me. The paranoia and claustrophobia of hidden love.
Boys are beyond the range of anybody's sure understanding, at least when they are between the ages of 18 months and 90 years.
Dear Non-American Black, when you make the choice to come to America, you become black. Stop arguing. Stop saying I'm Jamaican or I'm Ghanaian. America doesn't care.
The essence of being human is that one does not seek perfection, that one is sometimes willing to commit sins for the sake of loyalty, that one does not push asceticism to the point where it makes friendly intercourse impossible, and that one is prepared in the end to be defeated and broken up by life, which is the inevitable price of fastening one's love upon other human individuals.