Out of Context Quotes (round 3)

Nadine continues to entertain.

her: I once developed a crush on a boy because I saw him ironing. And then I saw him take out the trash.

her: I'll never be one of those girls with an hourglass figure and a 24" waist. 24!?! That's like the size of my head! If I'm lucky...

her: I don't ever want to be a child star.
me: Um. I think you're good to go.

her: As a general rule, I like heterosexual men. Clay Aiken was an exception. And Neil Patrick Harris.

her: Is it weird that I found a rehab centre I want to go to?

me: Maybe your doctor's right. Maybe you should just start having sex.
her: Maybe I will...maybe I will.
me: Don't do it! Don't doooooooooooo it.
her: Don't worry, I won't! (pause) I don't have blinds.*

her: Polygamy is on my mind!

*our blinds, purchased over a week ago, are lying on the floor, awaiting the mechanical expertise of a man or woman better than we. If you are that person, we will repay your helpfulness somehow.

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Simone Weil: On "Forms of the Implicit Love of God"

Simone Weil time again! One of the essays in Waiting for God is entitled "Forms of the Implicit Love of God." Her main argument is that before a soul has "direct contact" with God, there are three types of love that are implicitly the love of God, though they seem to have a different explicit object. That is, in loving X, you are really loving Y. (in this case, Y = God). As for the X of the equation, she lists: Love of neighbor Love of the beauty of the world Love of religious practices and a special sidebar to Friendship “Each has the virtue of a sacrament,” she writes. Each of these loves is something to be respected, honoured, and understood both symbolically and concretely. On each page of this essay, I found myself underlining profound, challenging, and thought-provoking words. There's so much to consider that I've gone back several times, mulling it over and wondering how my life would look if I truly believed even half of these thin

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Esse - Czeslaw Milosz

I'm on a bit of a poetry binge this week, and Monday afternoon found me lying on the luxurious shag rug of a friend's tiny apartment, re-reading some of my favourite poets (ee cummings, William Carlos Williams, Czeslaw Milosz). It is an adventure to re-open a collection and wonder what will pop out, knowing something you've read before will strike you afresh, or you will be reminded of a particularly moving line that you had somehow forgotten. Like this piece from Milosz, which floors me. Every. damn.* time. The first time I read it, I lay in a park with a friend (this same friend who offered me her rug as my reading burrow) and demanded that I share it with her. I spoke it carefully, and then, into the post-reading silence, I slammed the book shut, and dropped it as loudly as I could onto the grass. "I'm never reading anything again," I declared, "What else is there to say?" Esse I looked at that face, dumbfounded. The lights of métro st

* not with ink

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