She thought of the boy’s features as an exquisite distillation out of random patterns—endless queues of happenstance meeting at this nexus.

And then I became aware of all the magnificent silk wrapped around my body, and had the feeling I might drown in beauty. At that moment, beauty itself struck me as a kind of painful melancholy.

every man is free to rise as far as he's able or willing, but the degree to which he thinks determines the degree to which he'll rise.

World is supposed to mean something that's self-contained. but nothing is self-contained.

Written By Don DeLillo

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