Dreambooker

Quotes of movie “I’m Thinking of Ending Things”

Sometimes the thought is closer to the truth, to reality, than an action.

You can say anything, you can do anything, but you can’t fake a thought.

it’s not going anywhere. I’ve known this for a while now.

Maybe it’s human nature to keep going in the face of this knowledge.

The alternative requires too much energy. Decisiveness.

People stay in unhealthy relationships because it’s easier.

Basic physics. An object in motion tends to stay in motion.

People tend to stay in relationships past their expiration date.

It’s Newton’s first law of emotion.

Everything has to die. That’s the truth.

One likes to think that there is always hope.

That you can live above death.

And it’s a uniquely human fantasy that things will get better,

born perhaps of the uniquely

human understanding that things will not.

There’s no way to know for certain.

But I suspect humans are the only animals

that know the inevitability of their own deaths.

Other animals live in the present.

Humans cannot, so they invented hope.

I suppose all farmhouses are alike.

Like all happy families.

I’m not sure Tolstoy got that one right.

Happiness in a family is as nuanced as unhappiness.

Truth is…

I’m looking forward to when it gets very bad

and I don’t have to remember that I can’t remember!

Genius.

The luck of the draw, really.

The genetic lottery, as they say.

But to do as well as Jake did

with no special talent or abilities…

That’s much more impressive.

It’s tragic how few people possess their souls before they die.

“Nothing is more rare in any man,” Says Emerson, “Than an act of his own.”

And it’s quite true.

Most people are other people.

Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions.

Their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.

People like to think of themselves as points moving through time.

But I think it’s probably the opposite.

We’re stationary,

and time passes through us,

blowing like cold wind,

stealing our heat,

leaving us chapped and frozen.

I feel like I was that wind tonight.

Blowing through Jake’s parents.

Seeing them as they were, seeing them as they will be.

Seeing them after they’re gone.

When only I’m left.

Only the wind.

It’s despicable how we label people

and categorize them and dismiss them.

I look at the kids

I see at school every day.

I see the ones who are ostracized. They’re…

different. They’re out of step.

And I see the lives they’ll have because of that.

Sometimes I see them years later, in town, at the supermarket.

I see,

I can tell that they still carry that stuff around with them.

Like a…

black aura.

Like a millstone.

Like an oozing wound.

I don’t think we know how to be human anymore.

Who doesn’t?

Our society, our culture, people.

Whatever all this is.

Any of us.

“The spectacle cannot be understood as a mere visual deception produced by mass media technologies.

It is a worldview that has actually been materialized.”

Watch the world through this glass, pre-interpreted for us.

And it infects our brains. We become it.

Like a virus.

Everything is tinged.

Colored by mood, by emotion, by past experience.

There is no objective reality.

You know there’s no color in the universe, right?

Only in the brain.

Just electromagnetic frequencies, the brain tinges them.

Color is the deeds of light.

It’s the deeds and suffering.

Time is another thing that exists only in the brain.

Older and older.

Or so it seems.

Sometimes I feel…

I’m much younger

than I actually am, like still a kid inside,

until I pass a mirror.

How can you admire a person for their age?

It’s like admiring a certain point in a stream.

It’s healthier,

it’s brighter,

it’s more fun.

More attractive, hopeful.

Almost all groundbreaking work in science and the arts

is done by young people.

Old people are the ash heap of youth.

Bonedog

Coming home is terrible

whether the dogs lick your face or not

whether you have a wife

or just a wife-shaped loneliness waiting for you

Coming home is terrible lonely

so that you think of the oppressive barometric pressure

back with you have just come from with fondness

because everything’s worse once you’re home

You think of the vermin clingling to the grass stalks

long hours on the road，roadside assistance and ice creams

and the peculiar shapes of certain clouds

and silence with longing，because you did not want to return

Coming home is just awful

And the home-style silence and clouds contribute to nothing but the general malaise

Clouds, such as they are, are in fud suspect

and made from a different material than those you left behind

You youself were cut from a different cloudy cloth, returned, remaindered ill-met by moonlight

unhappy to be back,slack in all the wrong spots, seamy suit of clothes, dishrag-ratty, worn

You return home, moon-landed, foreign

The Earth’s gravitation pull an effort now redoubled

dragging your shoelaces loose and your shoulders

etching deeper the stanza of worry on your forehead

You return home deepened

a parched well linked to tomorrow by a frail strand of

anyway

You sigh into the onslaught of identical days

one might as well, at a time

Well anyway, you’re back

The sun goes up and down like a tired whore

The weather immobile like a broken limb while you just keep getting older

Nothing moves,but the shifting tides of salt in your body

Your vision blears

You carry your weather with you

the big, blue whale, a skeletal darkness

You come back with X-ray vision

your eyes have become a hunger

You come home with your mutant gifts to a house of bone

Everything you see now

All of it

bone

There’s only one question to resolve.

I’m scared. I feel a little crazy. I’m not lucid.

The assumptions are right. I can feel my fear growing.

Now is the time for the answer.

Just one question, one question to answer.