I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.
While her final graduation sketch was only a fake ceremony, the look on her face resembled many mixed emotions I’d seen exactly three years before sitting at my own college graduation: Excited faces of students who knew the purpose of going to college was to eventually graduate and move on to bigger things with the knowledge and practice they’d acquire, terrified faces of students who just realized that the purpose of going to college was to eventually graduate and move on to bigger things, nostalgic faces of students who already missed the friends they were sitting next to and smiling, glowing faces acknowledging that they’ve just had the most fun of their entire life. Or maybe it was more the face of a spring allergy sufferer in a windy field of pollen.
We are torn between nostalgia for the familiar and an urge for the foreign and strange. As often as not, we are homesick most for the places we have never known.
There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one’s own safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn’t, but if he was sane, he had to fly them. If he flew them, he was crazy and didn’t have to; but if he didn’t want to, he was sane and had to.
Joseph Heller, Catch-22
Happy belated would-have-been 89th birthday, Joseph Heller.
When I remember that dizzy summer, that dull, stupid, lovely, dire summer, it seems that in those days I ate my lunches, smelled another’s skin, noticed a shade of yellow, even simply sat, with greater lust and hopefulness—-and that I lusted with greater faith, hoped with greater abandon. The people I loved were celebrities, surrounded by rumor and fanfare; the places I sat with them, movie lots and monuments. No doubt all of this is not true remembrance but the ruinous work of nostalgia, which obliterates the past, and no doubt, as usual, I have exaggerated everything.