"Every one asks me what I 'think' of everything," said Spencer Brydon; "and I make answer as I can—begging or dodging the question, putting them off with any nonsense. It wouldn't matter to any of them really," he went on, "for, even were it possible to meet in that stand-and-deliver way so silly a demand on so big a subject, my 'thoughts' would still be almost altogether about something that concerns only myself."
He had a very important meeting at 11 a.m. and there were still a hundred kilometers to go. A terrible highway, apparently abandoned, where the undergrowth had already taken the entire shoulder extension and from where, now and then, through the dead fractures of the asphalt, the dry branches shook its bony arches.
I’ve sold two Dianas this month. Harold is not happy. “One week,” he says, gesturing across the store, the first its kind in America, “then it’s bye-bye to Bodyvival for you.”
It’s like if you were to say to someone, this is an egg, and the person went, no, no, it’s not, it’s a loaf of bread. It’s like that. You can’t argue with these people. You can’t even begin to defend objective fact, because the other person’s brain just isn’t willing to accept – or maybe isn’t even capable of accepting – any new or contradictory information about this particular thing, about a loaf of bread being really an egg or whatever.
My brother had claimed once that he had held his breath for a full twenty-four hours. If it was true, it was quite a feat. He had bested the German record holder by over twenty-three hours. When he was asked his secret, he said it was about getting your heart to stop, so you didn’t …