≈ no rigret ≈

Moving on, as a concept, is for stupid people, because any sensible person knows grief is a long-term project.

When he turned on the tape-transport once more, Arctor was saying, "--as near as I can figure out, God is dead." Luckman answered, "I didn't know He was sick.”

It’s remarkable what people become blind to when they’re in such darkness.

So poorly did you know yourself that you were always surprised at how you looked in photographs or how you sounded on voice mail. In this way, much of your existence took place in the eyes, ears, and fingertips of others. And now that you’ve left the Earth, you are stored in scattered heads around the globe. Here in this Purgatory, all the people with whom you’ve ever come in contact are gathered. The scattered bits of you are collected, pooled, and unified. The mirrors are held up in front of you. Without the benefit of filtration, you see yourself clearly for the first time. And that is what finally kills you.

Lots of water under that bridge, let’s not drown ourselves in it.

Remorse, etymologically, is the action of biting again: that’s what the feeling does to you.