So much guesswork.
— Holden Karnofsky
Everything is possible if it is well done.
— Le Corbusier, “The Core as a Meeting Place of the Arts”
When did you shout last time you were so happy?
— Aleksander Gamme, “Bliss,” Radiolab
If you are persuaded by the moral argument, but are not sufficiently motivated to act accordingly, I recommend that instead of worrying about how much you would have to do in order to live a fully ethical life, you do something that is significantly more than you have been doing so far. Then see how that feels.
— Peter Singer, The Life You Can Save
It has its depressing moments.
— Narrator, The Naked City
It’s very difficult to avoid storytelling.
— Paul Muldoon from notes
I chopped down the house that you had been saving to live in next summer.
I am sorry, but it was morning, and I had nothing to do
and its wooden beams were so inviting.
— Kenneth Koch, "Variations on a Theme by William Carlos Williams"
That’s exactly the way that I am.
— Trampled By Turtles, “Wait So Long”
And what of the future?
— Chris Hill, The Note
You would never find out another way.
— Alicia Cheng
As a shield from the terrible purity of Singer’s vision, I’ll look to the corruption that comes from interconnectedness. To justify my hopes that Singer’s theoretical world – and its entirely logical extensions – won’t become real, I’ll invoke the muck and mess and undeniable reality of disabled lives well lived. That’s the best I can do.
— Harriet McBryde Johnson, “Unspeakable Conversations,” The New York Times
My kingdom for a sharpie.
— John Hunter
Waitin’ for the manifest.
— Doc Watson, “Blue Railroad Train”
The object doesn’t contain the content.
— Gerardo
You would want to experience them like you would experience a poem.
— David
It’s so nice to be horizontal.
— Becca
I kind of felt that I was cheating. And then I was like: I’m not cheating.
— Dana Schultz
You look up and you realize there is this unreal masonry arch over the produce section.
— Nat Oppenheimer
Cornball jokes down here.
— John Hunter
No man loses his shadow except it is in the night, and even then his shadow is hidden, not lost.
— Derek Walcott, “From Omeros”