group of perverts

Melvin 2022-04-19 09:02:30

I'm Thinking of Ending Things

I'm Thinking of Ending Things

I finished reading it at twice the speed, reading text and books is of course better than watching movies; I mainly look at the form, I know; a group of perverts, I am too healthy, many can’t understand, and I don’t want to understand; people are perverts in society, The so-called perversion means that it is impossible to be normal, because people have different personalities and the society is very large and complex? But I still believe that a perfect "normality" can be shaped, that is, the perfect expression of human beings in society: it not only maintains the rules of most human beings, is environmentally friendly, healthy and sustainable, but also fully develops one's own personality

The film has a strong sense of form, and the dances and chaotic performances are exaggerated. revolution against oneself

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I'm Thinking of Ending Things quotes

  • Young Woman: [about his onset dementia] I'm sorry that y-you're...

    Father: That's okay. Truth is, I'm looking forward to when it gets very bad and I don't have to remember that I can't remember!

  • Young Woman: 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 terribly lonely, so that you think of the oppressive barometric pressure back where you have just come from with fondness, because everything's worse once you're home. You think of the vermin clinging to the grass stalks, long hours on the road, roadside assistance and ice creams, and the peculiar shapes of certain clouds and silences with longing because you did not want to return. Coming home is just awful. And the home-style silences and clouds contribute to nothing but the general malaise. Clouds, such as they are, are in fact suspect, and made from a different material than those you left behind. You yourself 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 gravitational 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.

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