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Ein guter Koch wechselt das Messer einmal im Jahr, weil er *schneidet.* Ein stümperhafter Koch muss das Messer alle Monate wechseln, weil er *hackt.* Ich habe mein Messer nun schon neunzehn Jahre lang und habe schon mehrere tausend Rinder zerlegt, und doch ist seine Schneide wie frisch geschliffen. Die Gelenke haben Zwischenräume; des Messers Schneide hat keine Dicke. Was aber keine Dicke hat, dringt in Zwischenräume ein – ungehindert, wie spielend, so dass die Klinge Platz genug hat. Darum habe ich das Messer nun schon neunzehn Jahre, und die Klinge ist wie frisch geschliffen.
Das Wahre Buch Vom Südlichen Blütenland
Zhuang Zi
Your empire’s hands look a lot cleaner when you get to dictate where history begins, and what parts of it don’t count.
Persepolis Rising
James S. A. Corey
I am thinking of something I saw on the subway in the early 80s, maybe 1982. I was sitting at the end of the last car on an express train and saw three or four African-American boys (in my memory they were 11-13 years old, maybe younger), grouped around the back window, staring out of it with pure absorption. Curious, I stood to look over their shoulders and saw what they were so raptly taking in: the piercing combination of speed and density as the train gathered momentum and hammered through the massive concrete and metal tunnels, our view herking and jerking with the cars, snatching bits of burning light in metal casement, underground signage, the track flashing and going dark as we clangored through stations, past dozens of waiting humans, personalities firing off bodily messages that our eyes saw before our minds could read them. It was beautiful and the boys were radiant with it, this wordless amazement of things.
The Hidden Life of Stories
Mary Gaitskill
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