The more people you love, the weaker you are. You’ll do things for them that you know you shouldn’t do. You’ll act the fool to make them happy, to keep them safe. Love no one but your children. On that front, a other has no choice.
Most people think I didn’t want kids, and that’s why I made my work my life. What they don’t realize, it’s really just the opposite.
What are children, but a weakness? A folly? A futility? Through them, you imagine you cheat the great darkness of its victory. You will persist forever, in some form or another. As if they will keep you from the dust. But for them, you surrender what you should not. You may know what is the right thing to be done, but love stays the hand. Love is a downfall.
Children grow up thinking the adult world is ordered, rational, fit for purpose. It’s crap. Becoming a man is realising that it’s all rotten. Realising how to celebrate that rottenness, that’s freedom.
Your children, bless their mischievous souls, they like to get involved. This way, what? They play too much Nintendo, eat too much junk food, smoke some ganja, pound some beers, experiment sexually. I mean, really, what’s the worst that can happen?[to Joyce]