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The gods have fled, I know. My sense is the gods have always been essentially absent. I do not believe human beings have played games or sports from the beginning merely to summon or to please or to appease the gods. If anthropologists and historians believe that, it is because they believe whatever they have been able to recover about what humankind told the gods humankind was doing. I believe we have played games, and watched games, to imitate the gods, to become godlike in our worship of eachother and, through those moments of transmutation, to know for an instant what the gods know.
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Hope lies to mortals And most believe her, But man's deceiver Was never mine.
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You can have whatever you want if you believe in yourself and keep your feet firmly planted in the ground.
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I was a narrative historian, believing more and more as I matured that the first function of the historian was to answer the child's question, "What happened next?
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Rather than making money I believe in making people happy, all other things are secondary. Money isn't important, creative satisfaction is
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Like most parents, I've been stumped by homework, the big questions, such as: 'What is the point of geography - the pilot always knows where we are going?'. Answer: 'If you didn't know any geography, people would think you were an American, and you wouldn't be able to put them right because you wouldn't know where they live.'
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People who deal with life generously and large-heartedly go on multiplying relationships to the end.
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As I make my slow pilgrimage through the world, a certain sense of beautiful mystery seems to gather and grow.
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Photographs are of course about their makers, and are to be read for what they disclose in that regard no less than for what they reveal of the world as their makers comprehend, invent, and describe it.
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Let me tell you, though: being the smartest boy in the world wasn’t easy. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want this. On the contrary, it was a huge burden. First, there was the task of keeping my brain perfectly protected. My cerebral cortex was a national treasure, a masterpiece of the Sistine Chapel of brains. This was not something that could be treated frivolously. If I could have locked it in a safe, I would have. Instead, I became obsessed with brain damage.
