What I'm always struck with is his subtlety
. Some people can stare out into the Grand Canyon and ask, "How could anything so great not have had a creator?" But aren't those the people who think about dying once a year, on a particularly cold night, as they're falling asleep -- they fall asleep anyway.
I don't fall asleep. I get into bed in a snug, quiet room, and worry about where my life is headed. My thoughts alternate between fantasies of grand self-actualization and vague, sheepish prayer to a god I can't hear or smell anymore.
I love people. They're so mysterious. I can spend whole afternoons just watching people walk by on a crowded street. I guess I'm a little different from most people watchers, though. What I really want is for one of these strange women to stop suddenly, look straight at me and say, "I, too, am very lonely and looking for a soul-mate who enjoys Dostoevsky and Sloan." She never comes -- even when I'm humming a catchy Sloan tune or reading a copy of Crime and Punishment.
Being alone is quite a talent for someone as self-conscious as me. I spend 99% figuring out how I'm going to get into the next deep, soul-searching conversation with someone. There's some insatiable hunger inside for a human truth.
Human truths are irritating. They're contradictory and paradoxical. The only way you know human truth is when it smacks you in the face. They're actually very banal. Part of the reason I've separated myself from so many of my former beliefs is because they lack that accesiblity. What good is a truth is any old schnook can't grasp hold of it when he wants to?