There are are as many sets of constellations as there are suns from which to look out on the universe, each solar system a proof point for the inescapable law of perspective.
“I don’t know if there’s such a thing as life after life,” he said, but I didn’t know what he meant, even after he throat chuckled as if it was a joke, so I half-raised my glass to acknowledge his wit, but there was nothing I could say, and I caught myself thinking, more or less, “What a douche,” and then, “How do I get out of this conversation? How do I escape the smell of his sweaty cologne?” and I started to say something about a friend just walking in, but the guy put his hand on my shoulder, not just resting it, but cupping it, like his hand was a baseball mitt and my shoulder was the ball, something like that, and he pulled me over to the window, nodded out to the parking lot, and he said, “See what I mean? Is there life after that? After asphalt and streetlamps and garbage dumpsters?” – that horrible chuckle again, and a quick look, like he was testing me to see if I was in on the joke – but I still had nothing to say, just stared out at the parking lot, avoiding his eyes as best I could.
The world is a cliche. The more unique and surprising something is, the less likely it is to be true.
There were colours in the sunset last night that even an amateur watercolourist would have thought too obvious – lilac and aubergine, salmon and dusty rose, apricot and clementine – nature at its most gloriously insipid.
The task of the artist is not to be original. It is to show the true banality of the world and give it the illusion of novelty.