Mark Slouka Quotes

I lost my father this past year, and the word feels right because I keep looking for him. As if he were misplaced. As if he could just turn up, like a sock or a set of keys.

a moment in the past, like a bone in the throat, that needed his attention.

Consider it: Who but God could have dreamed a tale so absurd and so heartless?

The case for the humanities is not hard to make, though it can be difficult
to such an extent have we been marginalized, so long have we acceded to that marginalization
not to sound either defensive or naive. The humanities, done right, are the crucible in which our evolving notions of what it means to be fully human are put to the test; they teach us, incrementally, endlessly, not what to do, but how to be. Their method is confrontational, their domain unlimited, their "product" not truth but the reasoned search for truth, their "success" something very much like Frost's momentary stay against confusion.

My mother knew a man during the war. Theirs was a love story, and like any good love story, it left blood on the floor and wreckage in its wake.

We're angry about this, upset about that, but who has the time to do anything anymore? There are those reports to report on, memos to remember, e-mails to deflect or delete. They bury us like snow.

There are times in every life when the past acquires a particular resonance, when we grow sensitive to sounds and voices normally beyond the range of hearing. The past shades into present always and everywhere, but only rarely do we acknowledge the process; only rarely does some trigger force us to recognize ourselves as citizens of that frontier.

And yet, far off, I can hear something whispering that this compulsion to do, to intrude ourselves, to improve on what is
even when wholly well intentioned, particularly when wholly well intentioned
is the source of all our troubles.

Like a small stone deflected off a larger one, my brother had spun off toward the Almighty, though to my mind the events of that morning could just as well have cast him the other way.

I distrust the perpetually busy, always have. The frenetic ones spinning in tight little circles like poisoned rats. The slower ones, grinding away their fourscore and ten in righteousness and pain. They are the soul-eaters.

I thought of calling this piece "In Memoriam," because "in memoriam" has always suggested a place to me - Memoriam, Oklahoma, say, or Memoriam, Tennessee - and because, to my tinker's brain, "in memoriam," sounds like "in memory am." Which I am, now more than ever. Lost, basically, wandering that ancestral home, all polished wood and anecdote, wishing that I could unload it somehow, knowing I never will. Like it or not, I have an investment in Memoriam now. My father's casket between the potted palms is the cornerstone. Welcome home, kid.

It's an odd, slightly ghostly predicament. Lacking brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, with my mother's memory having long ago lost any trace of me, I find myself the sole surviving owner of ten thousand names, stories, jokes, associations - that time the raccoon reached up through the knothole in the cabin floor when I was four; those Friday nights when the three of us would watch "The Man from U.N.C.L.E."; that evening, a memorable night in 1966, when my dad, with his professorial air and his Czech accent and his horn-rims, put on my mother's shoulder-length blond wig on a dare and went out to pick up the pizza - that mean nothing, except that they were the soil of our lives.

It's a race between your foolishness and your allotted days. Good luck.

Literature is literature. Its purpose is to challenge and disorient us, to break us down a little bit so that we are forced to rebuild ourselves. Over time, over the course of many books, we construct a deeper, truer self.

I was raised to be ashamed of my ignorance, and to try to do something about it if at all possible.

Like isolated apartment dwellers running the TV for company, we sense a deeper isolation beneath the babble of voices, the poverty of our communications.

Gone. The saddest word in the language. In any language.

Pleasure and pain are immediate; knowledge, retrospective. A steel ball, suspended on a string, smacks into its brothers and nothing happens: no shock of recognition, no sudden epiphany. We go about our business, buttering the toast, choosing gray socks over brown. But here's the thing: just because we haven't understood something doesn't mean we haven't been shaped by it.

Such is the privilege of survival: to be allowed to fashion the means that fit our ends, to cobble together a narrative that reveals (as by the divine light of illumination) the predestined arc of our days. This is no small gift. With it we can neutralize all but the greatest losses, reduce even the greatest bastards to nothing more than bit actors in the drama of our lives, put on this earth for the sole purpose of forwarding our cause. Blessed are those who can believe their own stories.

I suspect that on some level, life is a matter of indefensible loyalties.

Acceptance was not in my nature. Even as a young man it seemed to me that everywhere the world conspired against the heart, and though I knew the heart would lose, I couldn't bear to call it right.