Yield not thy neck To fortune's yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance.

البراعة تكمن في القدرة على وصف الأخرين كما يرون أنفسهم

The park admits the wind, the petals lift and scatter  like versions of myself I was on the verge of becoming; and ten years on  and ten blocks down I still can’t tell whether this dispersal resembles  a fist unclenching or waving goodbye.

Perhaps the only reason they survived, Stencil reasoned, was that they were not alone. God knew how many more there were with a hothouse sense of time, no knowledge of life, and at the mercy of Fortune.

Written By Thomas Pynchon

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