It Turns Out That There

Young Minds - Young Brains - Need Stories And Ideas Like The Ones In Those [censored And Banned] Books In Order To Grow. They Need Ideas That You Disagree With. They Need Ideas That I Disagree With. Or They'll Never Be Able To Figure Out What Ideas They Believe In.

The Idea Of Some Kind Of Objectively Constant, Universal Literary Value Is Seductive. It Feels Real. It Feels Like A Stone Cold Fact That In Search Of Lost Time, By Marcel Proust, Is Better Than A Shore Thing, By Snooki. And It May Be; Snooki Definitely Has More One-star Reviews On Amazon. But If Literary Value Is Real, No One Seems To Be Able To Locate It Or Define It Very Well. We're Increasingly Adrift In A Grey Void Of Aesthetic Relativism.

A Big Silvery Janitor. Penny, This Can’t Be How The Universe Works.” “in The Order We Call It ‘inverse Profundity.’ We’ve Observed It In Any Number Of Cases. The Deeper You Go Into The Cosmic Mysteries, The Less Interesting Everything Gets.

His Crush Went From Exciting To Depressing, As If He'd Gone From The First Blush Of Infatuation To The Terminal Nostalgia Of A Former Lover Without Even The Temporary Relief Of An Actual Relationship In Between.

I Guess I Was Raised In A Household With A Lot Of Reverence For The Physical Sanctity Of Books. You Didn't Destroy Books.