“And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.”
“I’ll be your mirror
Reflect what you are, in case you don’t know
I’ll be the wind, the rain and the sunset
The light on your door to show that you’re home
When you think the night has seen your mind
That inside you’re twisted and unkind
Let me stand to show that you are blind
Please put down your hands
Cause I see you
I find it hard to believe you don’t know
The beauty that you are
But if you don’t let me be your eyes
A hand in your darkness, so you won’t be afraid
When you think the night has seen your mind
That inside you’re twisted and unkind
Let me stand to show that you are blind
Please put down your hands
Cause I see you
I’ll be your mirror”
“I have found quite a universal rule which in this matter seems to me valid above all other, and in all human affairs whether in word or deed: and that is to avoid affectation in every way possible as though it were some rough and dangerous reef; and (to pronounce a new word perhaps) to practice in all things a certain sprezzatura, so as to conceal all art and make whatever is done or said appear to be without effort and almost without any thought about it.”
“Does such a thing as ‘the fatal flaw,’ that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside of literature? I used to think it didn’t. Now I think it does. And I think that mine is this: a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs.”
“There are visions a man can only tolerate in a mirror. To see them face-to-face turns him to stone.”
“This portrait would be to him the most magical of mirrors. As it had revealed to him his own body, so it would reveal to him his own soul. And when winter came upon it, he would still be standing where spring trembles on the verge of summer. When the blood crept from its face, and left behind a pallid mask of chalk with leaden eyes, he would keep the glamour of boyhood. Not one blossom of his loveliness would ever fade. Not one pulse of his life would ever weaken. Like the gods of the Greeks, he would be strong, and fleet, and joyous. What did it matter what happened to the coloured image on the canvas?”
“We were liars, cheats, she began—none of it was real. The trees had been made to move by a trick, it was only the branches. someone was filming from a helicopter, circling around. The poplars hadn’t moved at all, but the viewer would think they were leaping about dancing, that the whole forest was spinning round. The was sheer deception; it was disgusting.
I defended myself. ‘You’re quite wrong,’ I said. ‘The tree really was dancing because that is how the viewer will experience it. What matters was the effect we achieved, not whether the tree moved or if a technician created the idea of movement. Did you think the forest could walk around, when the trees are held by their roots? Don’t you think it’s a function of art to create the illusion of reality?’
’Art,’ she repeated bitterly. ‘If that’s what you were—artists—then everything would be real, even the dance, because you would know how to make the leaves move to your words, not to a wind machine or whatever it was. But you people can’t do anything like that—not you, or the others. You’re all clowns, and more contemptible than clowns. You’re worse than con men.’”
“But there’s some sort of revealing lesson here in the beyond-short-term viability-curve of advances in consumer technology. The career of vidophony conforms neatly to this curve’s classically annular shape: First there’s some sort of terrific, si-fi-like advance in consumer tech—like from aural to video phoning—which advance always, however, has certain unforseen disadvantages for the consumer; and then but the market-niches created by those disadvantages—like people’s stressfully vain repulsion at their own videophonic appearance—are ingeniously filled via sheer entrepreneurial verve; and yet the very advantages of these ingenious disadvantage-compensations seem all too often to undercut the original high-tech advance, resulting in consumer-recidivism and curve-closure and massive shirt-loss for precipitant investors. In the present case, the stress-and-vanity-compensations’ own evolution saw video-callers rejecting first their own faces and then even their own heavily masked an enhanced physical likenesses and finally covering the video-cameras altogether and transmitting attractively stylized static Tableaux to one another’s TPs. And, behind these lens-cap dioramas and transmitted Tableaux, callers of course found that they were once again stresslessly invisible, unvainly makeup- and toupeeless and baggy-eyed behind their celebrity-dioramas, once again free—since once again unseen—to doodle, blemish-scan, manicure, crease-check—while on their screen, the attractive, intensely attentive face of the well-appointed celebrity on the other end’s Tableau reassured them that they were the objects of a concentrated attention they didn’t have to exert.”
“We choose the facts that we want to believe. We also choose our friends, lovers, and spouses not just because of the way we perceive them but because of the way they perceive us. Unlike phenomena in physics, in life, events can often obey one theory or another, and what actually happens can depend largely upon which theory we choose to believe. It is a gift of the mind to be extraordinarily open to accepting theory of ourselves that pushes us in the direction of survival, and even happiness. ”
“The shame and disgrace of Alexei Alexandrovich and of Seryozha, and my own terrible shame—death will save it all. To die—and he will repent, pity, love, and suffer for me.’ With a fixed smile of compassion for herself, she sat in the chair, taking off and putting on the rings on her left hand, vividly imagining from all sides his feelings after her death.”
“Glamour is not something you possess but something you perceive, not something you have but something you feel. It is a subjective response to a stimulus. One may strive to construct a glamorous effect, but success depends on the perceiver’s receptive imagination.”
“‘What’s that, a gram?’ Price says, not apathetically.
‘New card.’ I try to act casual about it but I’m smiling proudly. ‘What do you think?’
‘Whoa,’ McDermott says, lifting it up, fingering the card, genuinely impressed. ‘Very
nice. Take a look.’ He hands it to Van Patten.
‘Picked them up from the printer’s yesterday,’ I mention.
‘Cool coloring,’ Van Patten says, studying the card closely.
‘That’s bone,’ I point out. ‘And the lettering is something called Silian Rail.’
‘Silian Rail?’ McDermott asks.
‘Yeah. Not bad, huh?’
‘It is very cool, Bateman,’ Van Patten says guardedly, the jealous bastard, ‘but that’s
nothing….’ He pulls out his wallet and slaps a card next to an ashtray. ‘Look at this.’
We all lean over and inspect David’s card and Price quietly says, ‘That’s really nice.’
A brief spasm of jealousy courses through me when I notice the elegance of the color
and the classy type. I clench my fist as Van Patten says, smugly, ‘Eggshell with
Romalian type…’ He turns to me. ‘What do you think?’
‘Nice,’ I croak, but manage to nod, as the busboy brings four fresh Bellinis.
‘Jesus,’ Price says, holding the card up to the light, ignoring the new drinks. ‘This is
really super. How’d a nitwit like you get so tasteful?’
I’m looking at Van Patten’s card and then at mine and cannot believe that Price
actually likes Van Patten’s better.
Dizzy, I sip my drink then take a deep breath.
‘But wait,’ Price says. ‘You ain’t seen nothin’ yet…’ He pulls his out of an inside coat
pocket and slowly, dramatically turns it over for our inspection and says, ‘Mine.’
Even I have to admit it’s magnificent.
Suddenly the restaurant seems far away, hushed, the noise distant, a meaningless
hum, compared to this card, and we all hear Price’s words: ‘Raised lettering, pale
nimbus white…’
‘Holy shit,’ Van Patten exclaims. ‘I’ve never seen…’
‘Nice, very nice,’ I have to admit. ‘But wait. Let’s see Montgomery’s.’
Price pulls it out and though he’s acting nonchalant, I don’t see how he can ignore its
subtle off-white coloring, its tasteful thickness. I am unexpectedly depressed that I
started this.
...
I pick up Montgomery’s card and actually finger it, for the sensation the card gives off
to the pads of my fingers.
‘Nice, huh?’ Price’s tone suggests he realizes I’m jealous.
‘Yeah,’ I say offhandedly, giving Price the card like I don’t give a shit, but I’m finding it
hard to swallow. ”
“But nothing disturbs the feeling of specialness like the presence of other human beings feeling identically special.”
“Elective ignorance was a great survival skill, perhaps the greatest.”
“Her description was as vivid as if she actually lived that way. It’s important to achieve this degree of concreteness when visualizing your ideal lifestyle. If you find that hard, if you can’t picture the kind of life you would like to have, try looking in interior decorating magazines for photos that grab you.”
“glamour can serve many purposes: individual and collective; personal, social, commercial, or political. The story of glamour is the story of human longing and its cultural manifestations. Like other forms of rhetoric and art, glamour can embody good ideas or bad ones. It can inspire life-enhancing actions or destructive ones. Its meaning and its effects depend on the audience. But one thing is certain: glamour is not trivial.”
“In formal economic terms, ‘innovation’ involves the diffusion of new things and practices. The term is completely agnostic about whether these things and practices are good. Crack cocaine, for example, was a highly innovative product in the 1980s, which involved a great deal of entrepreneurship (called ‘dealing’) and generated lots of revenue. Innovation! Entrepreneurship! Perhaps this point is cynical, but it draws our attention to a perverse reality: contemporary discourse treats innovation as a positive value in itself, when it is not.”
“Anna Arkadyevna read and understood, but it was unpleasant for her to read, that is, to follow the reflection of other people’s lives. She wanted too much to live herself. When she read about the heroine of the novel taking care of a sick man, she wanted to walk with inaudible steps round the sick man’s room; when she read about a Member of Parliament making a speech, she wanted to make that speech; when she read about how Lady Mary rode to hounds, teasing her sister-in-law and surprising everyone with her courage, she wanted to do it herself. But there was nothing to do, and so, fingering the smooth knife with her small hands, she forced herself to read.
...
The hero of the novel was already beginning to achieve his English happiness, a baronetcy and an estate, and Anna wished to go with him to this estate, when suddenly she felt that he must be ashamed and that she was ashamed of the same thing. But what was she ashamed of? ‘What am I ashamed of?’ she asked herself in offended astonishment. She put down the book and leaned back in the seat, clutching the paper-knife tightly in both hands.”
“It was a rainy night. It was the myth of the rainy night. Dean was popeyed with awe. This madness would lead nowhere.”
“As he tried
To quench his thirst, inside him, deep within him,
Another thirst was growing, for he saw
An image in the pool, and fell in love
With that unbodied hope, and found a substance
In what was only shadow. He looks in wonder,
Charmed by himself, spell-bound, and no more moving
Than any marble statue.
He sees his eyes, twin stars, and locks as comely
As those of Bacchus or the god Apollo,
Smooth cheeks, and ivory neck, and the bright beauty
Of countenance, and a flush of color rising
In the fair whiteness. Everything attracts him
That makes him so attractive. Foolish boy,
He wants himself; the love becomes the lover,
The seeker sought, the kindler burns. How often
He tries to kiss the image in the water
Dips in his arms to embrace the boy he sees there,
And finds the boy, himself, elusive always,
Not knowing what he sees, but burning for it,
The same delusion mocking his eyes and teasing.
Why try to catch an always fleeting image
Poor credulous youngster? What you seek is nowhere
And if you turn away, you will take with you
The boy you love. The vision is only shadow,
Only reflection, lacking any substance.
It comes with you, it stays with you, it goes
Away with you, if you can go away.”