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
That's what tyrants do, I guess. They make you covet their attention; they make you confuse attention for mercy.
Interpretation
The quote suggests that tyrants manipulate people's desire for their attention, leading them to mistake it for kindness or compassion.
In this quote, Gary Shteyngart reflects on the nature of tyrants and how they wield power over others. He points out that tyrants create a dynamic where their subjects crave attention, which is often misinterpreted as benevolence. This underscores a deeper commentary on the relationship between power and perception, illustrating how twisted motivations can distort reality and morality.
In practice
During a lecture on political power dynamics, one might use this quote to illustrate the psychology of oppression.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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. βYouβre my sacred ones,β I told the books. βNo one but me still cares about you. But Iβm going to keep you with me forever. And one day Iβll make you important again.β I thought about that terrible calumny of the new generation: that books smell.
People have to have a language to speak about where they are and what other possible futures are available to them.
I think, sometimes, that I'm going nuts, and that perhaps there is something good about blocking clean water for those who have none, making sure that illiterate children remain so, and preventing the resuscitation of the public health sector in the country most in need of it. Lunacy is what it is.
People who think honestly and deeply have a hostile attitude towards the public.
We all have known good critics, who have stamped out poet's hopes; Good statesmen, who pulled ruin on the state; Good patriots, who, for a theory, risked a cause; Good kings, who disemboweled for a tax; Good Popes, who brought all good to jeopardy; Good Christians, who sat still in easy-chairs; And damned the general world for standing up. Now, may the good God pardon all good men!
Human models are more vivid and more persuasive than explicit moral commands.
I ought to spend the best hours of the day in communion with God. It is my noblest and most fruitful employment, and is not to be thrust into any corner.
Subscribe for the occasional hand-picked quote. No noise.