Who knows what’s happening in someone else’s head? He cannot with any confidence say what’s happening in his own head.

What does it mean to care about art but not about the people who made that art? And this brings me again to the annotation I found

Death in human life only makes sense when death has been acknowledged. It is not a raw biological fact, not for humans. Death is knowledge of death, death is the ritual for the dead. This is why when we hear someone has died we always want to know how it happened: because in order to begin to absorb the pain of the loss we need a narrative. Acknowl

The music interprets him. That shadowy voice and those unamplified guitars set a contour around his body and he becomes legible again to himself.

The great conversation has become a monologue.

lineage is a forest of forking paths.

We forget the Slave Ship, we must forget the Slave Ship in the way we must forget many difficult things with the kind of forgetfulness that allows us to keep on living our lives.

there’s the stubborn gap between what he is able to think and what he is able to do.

We live on the accumulated ruins of experience.