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Book: Chronic City
Quotes of Book: Chronic City

Jonathan Lethem _ Chronic City
The world was ersatz and actual, forged and faked, by ourselves and unseen others. Daring to attempt to absolutely sort fake from real was a folly that would call down tigers or hiccups to cure us of our recklessness. The effort was doomed, for it too much pointed past the intimate boundaries of our necessary fictions.
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Jonathan Lethem _ Chronic City
Als ich einmal kurz allein in seiner Wohnung war, fand ich unter den verstreuten Papieren einen Fetzen mit Lyrik, das einzig Schriftliche neben seinen kritischen Exegesen, was ich je von ihm gesehen habe. Eine unvollständige, verworfene Ode: "O Koffein!/Du zeitgemäßes Z̶i̶e̶h̶n̶Fliehn/i̶c̶h̶ ̶h̶a̶b̶ ̶d̶i̶r̶ ̶i̶n̶s̶ ̶G̶e̶s̶i̶c̶h̶t̶ ̶g̶e̶s̶p̶i̶e̶n/d̶u̶ ̶h̶a̶s̶t̶ ̶m̶i̶r̶ ̶i̶n̶s̶ ̶G̶e̶s̶i̶c̶h̶t̶/übers Gesicht..." Und tatsächlich waren auf dem Blatt zahlreiche Abdrücke einer Kaffeetasse zu sehen.
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Jonathan Lethem _ Chronic City
Sleepwalkers, leave other sleepwalkers alone!
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Jonathan Lethem _ Chronic City
Il guaritore mi aveva detto che ero stato saggio a rivolgermi a lui per tempo, spiegandomi che troppa gente afflitta da singhiozzi cronici ricorre all'agopuntura quando è all'ultima spiaggia. Avrebbe impiantato gli aghi nei punti E-37, E-1 ed E-33, e a quel punto avremmo capito per quale via Perkus fosse giunto a quella situazione, sottintendendo come al suo solito che avrebbe fatto scomparire i sintomi per poter passare a questioni più profonde, alla malattia del mondo che per definizione colpisce ogni anima.
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Jonathan Lethem _ Chronic City
Mai infrangere le illusioni degli altri se non si è certi di poter offrir loro un'alternativa migliore di quella a cui li si vuole strappare.
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Jonathan Lethem _ Chronic City
Of all records, Chase, Some Girls! It was in a clutch of the most horrendous crap, J. Geils Band, Sniff 'n' the Tears, the kind of albums you'd use for landfill.
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Jonathan Lethem _ Chronic City
Despite their authoritarian light show, those ice-cream trucks of death couldn't do any more for Perkus's murdered infatuation, his crushed crush, than could keening Greek chorus, or a moaning witch doctor."
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Jonathan Lethem _ Chronic City
It was a rebus of heartbreak, misfortune a dog could parse.
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Jonathan Lethem _ Chronic City
The invisible are always so resolutely invisible, until you see them.
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Jonathan Lethem _ Chronic City
Did I read The New Yorker? This question had a dangerous urgency. It wasn't any one writer or article he was worried about, but the font. The meaning embedded, at a preconscious level, by the look of the magazine; the seal, as he described it, that the typography and layout put on dialectical thought. According to Perkus, to read The New Yorker was to find that you always already agreed, not with The New Yorker but, much more dismayingly, with yourself. I tried hard to understand. Apparently here was the paranoia Susan Eldred had warned me of: The New Yorker's font was controlling, perhaps assailing, Perkus Tooth's mind. To defend himself he frequently retyped their articles and printed them out in simple Courier, an attempt to dissolve the magazine's oppressive context. Once I'd enter his apartment to find him on his carpet with a pair of scissors, furiously slicing up and rearranging an issue of the magazine, trying to shatter its spell on his brain.
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Jonathan Lethem _ Chronic City
Terms swarm up to tempt me in the course of this description: etc. These guessing words I find junked in my brain in deranged juxtaposition, like files randomly stuffed into cabinets by a dispirited secretary with no notion of what, if anything, might ever be usefully retrieved. Often all language seems this way: a monstrous compendium of embedded histories I'm helpless to understand. I employ it the way a dog drives a car, without grasping how the car came to exist or what makes a combustion engine possible. That is, of course, if dogs drove cars. They don't. Yet I go around forming sentences.
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Jonathan Lethem _ Chronic City
Today the tower's flock, the usual birds, flew in a kind of scatter pattern, their paths intricately chaotic, the bunch parting and interweaving like boiling pasta under a pot's lifted lid. It appeared someone had given the birds new instructions, had whispered that there was something to avoid, or someone to fool. I once heard Perkus Tooth say that he'd woken that morning having dreamed an enigmatic sentence: "Paranoia is a flower in the brain." Perkus offered this, then smirked and bugged his eyes--the ordinary eye, and the other. I played at amazement {I was amazed, anyway, at the fact that Perkus dreamed sentences to begin with}. Yet I hadn't understood what the words meant to him until now, when I knew for a crucial instant that the birds had been directed to deceive me. That was when I saw the brain's flower. Perkus had, I think, been trying to prepare me for how beautiful it was.
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