Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow: Give the #1 bestseller to everyone you love this Christmas

Marx loved college theater. It wasn’t so much being on stage that he loved, but the productions themselves. He loved the intimacy of being in a tight group of people who had come together, miraculously, for a brief period in time, for the purpose of making art. He mourned every time a production was over, and he rejoiced when he was cast in a new o

“And this is the truth of any game—it can only exist at the moment that it is being played. It’s the same with being an actor. In the end, all we can ever know is the game that was played, in the only world that we know.”

His brain was treacherously negative. He would invent that she had been cold toward him, that she hadn’t even had a class that day, that she had simply wanted to get away from Sam.

But for Marx, the world was like a breakfast at a five-star hotel in an Asian country—the abundance of it was almost overwhelming. Who wouldn’t want a pineapple smoothie, a roast pork bun, an omelet, pickled vegetables, sushi, and a green-tea-flavored croissant? They were all there for the taking and delicious, in their own way.

it is not an inevitability that we should be our worst selves behind the mask of an avatar.

He was happiest when he did not have to think about his body—when he could forget that he had a body at all.

viridescent

Alice was clever, but she had the kind of cleverness that verged on the unkind,

“So, what you’re saying is that you were Emily Blasted?” Marx said.